Prisoner #897

plotting out ideas for my next book...

He spends his life behind

The stinky

Reeking

Stench of stale metal bars,

Bleeds his own heart

Dry

And leaves no scars,

Dares not let anyone

Hear him

Cry.

 

Prisoner #897

And

This is his

Eternal

Hellish Heaven.

 

Whether the blood was on his hands

Or it was all just crazed dreams’ demands,

He does not know anymore

As the truth fades into

Lies

And he cries another night on the

Dank prison floor.

And the lies fade into

Legend—

Prisoner #897:

A pile of bones

Entombed in this prison.

 

Reviews

[Dressed in Poetry]

Awwww. This is sad. I like that he is merely a number; we cannot know if he is guilty or innocent, like he does not know.

[jmt8921]

I don't really have much of a critique, it all seems solid to me. I thought it was pretty durn good, if I do say so myself. It's an awful lot of characterization for such a short piece. But it still leaves enough holes to keep the reader interested and curious about the prisoner. Does he cry because he feels guilty, or out of selfishness and anger at his own condition. What did he do, is he innocent, guilty? Who knows. Cool.

[thecoolone52]

i like the impression you give about prison... it almost makes me feel bad for some of the people that are in jail right now...... nice imagrey and the number sequence i think added quite well to your poem..... sweeeeet work