Sitting in maximum security,
I saw from across a steel table
The yearning for freedom in a murderer's eyes.
I saw the lack of sunshine across his pale face.
When I scanned him for traces of remorse,
All I could see were tears.
I saw tears for the wife he would never have,
For the child he would never create,
And for the potential within him that was set aflame.
I saw him eat his food, and talk about the weather
As if it mattered.
I saw the shadowy bags under his eyes
That spoke of a tortured soul
And sleepless nights that were haunted by the memory
Of a beautiful world.
His rest was fitful,
Plagued by the reality that he would never see a sunset again
Until his youthful hair was grey.
I saw him brandishing a swollen hand,
Preparing himself for yet another threat of violence.
Sometimes he won, sometimes he lost.
He had no care for self preservation.
His knuckles were his liason,
His anger held the promise that he would live to fight again.
I saw him writing letters daily,
Pouring his soul into every line,
And delicately maneuvering his pencil,
Breathing life into every word.
Four pages for every stamp,
Two stamps for every week.
I saw his eyes light up when the mail came.
He smiled in antincipation, for words from someone who loved him,
But every letter was stamped with the same red words:
Return to sender.
Written by: Kyle Ezra Kriticos