prison of the self

anyone else would be hard pressed

to find an 8x8 that brought with it

stronger bars, harder concrete,

less sustenance provided &

a bed that would put the iron maiden to

shame,

when it comes to the prison of the self---

how much hate can go into the energy it takes

to relive the moments that have already passed,

only to beat oneself up

again & again,

as if this time around,

something new, some kind of clue as to why

one acted in such a manner,

will pop out & make it all clear

so that suddenly some kind of closure, or

some kind of calming of the mind will

arrive---

rather, it is all the faces from the past that continue to plague the

present &

all the sands of time that travel through the cupped hands

now dry, cracked & wrinkling,

without a moment’s pause

as those around said

mental

memory producing

masochists

tremble & wither throughout their days

tremble & wither

as the fragility within shows on the outskirt of that very skin

doing its best to

hold it all in---

but if you look ever so closely in the eyes

you can see the bars themselves &

a person dying in the corner

of that very cell,

unforgotten &

unforgiven.