Brick.
It was always a brick,
Nothing more, nothing less.

Although he always wanted it to be more, often he fantasized
About feeling reeds between his fingers or the mud between his toes.
However, there were only bricks.
        Bricks on top of bricks,
              Vertical and horizontal,
                   Wide and thick,
                         For miles and miles.

He indulged casually,
As his fingertips would seldom graze the slick condensation of the outside,
Bleeding through the cracks in the mortar.
         Those moments let him drift,


From time to time, as if he existed outside this cage.


The room was always the same,
When the door closed it was dark and sterile,
devoid of light and sound pollution just like they wanted it.
Everything around him remained shrouded in darkness,
Save
   For one
          Solitary sliver of light
Under the door that hinted a feint existence of the outside world.

A world often forgotten about.

His fingers once again found themselves caressing the face of the four walls.
Desperately searching for some kind of recourse.
There would be those moments, there always were.
When he would find himself lost in deep thought.
As a brick slowly shift under his touch and into the curves of her body,
Cold to the touch
Yet still beautiful as the day he met her.  
Idle in his thoughts he would soon realize that’s why he was here in solidarity.
He had made her just frigid to the bone,

                         And so there he will lie,
                         In darkness,
                         Cramped in confinement.

                         Enclosed in Brick.