‘it’s always nighttime in prison’
they tied their feet together;
every vowel lives on
until the morning sun hithers
pages thrown to sea,
the deep blue churns recklessly
their hearts are the coldest stones
they have thrown right at me.
he would carry on his back
a piece of the burning sun
and after the ink runs out
would he escape and run
his brothers will never wait
inscriptions he made will eventually fade
horror rots upon the walls of his brain
but poetry will keep him sane.
Mar 19, 2019
Mar 19, 2019 at 4:20 PM UTC
‘it’s always nighttime in prison’
they tied their feet together;
every vowel lives on
until the morning sun hithers
pages thrown to sea,
the deep blue churns recklessly
their hearts are the coldest stones
they have thrown right at me.
he would carry on his back
a piece of the burning sun
and after the ink runs out
would he escape and run
his brothers will never wait
inscriptions he made will eventually fade
horror rots upon the walls of his brain
but poetry will keep him sane.
