The prisoner, he is losing his precious eyesight, and he is quite glad
For years now, never had the chance to intrude,
The world he never knew.
To him, nothing left to see other than his crummy cell.
In rhyme, he prays every night
He asks for guidance and asked for peace
On unpainted walls he sees his reflection, dull and disturbing feats
In his flesh, there's a certain feeling he won't figure.
He is empty, lacks the soul, the will to go out side. The prisoner is actually a freeman. The prisoner is me.