Worn out Love
Hall Mad Poet
It is cold; the floor is damp,
It is mostly dark; there is no lamp.
Bars on the windows shield from the elements,
The tenement of the mind is diligently redolent.
Of the warmth he once felt
And the happiness that filled the space he dwelt
Now he cowers in the corner hands clasped around his knees,
Resting his head on them, while shivering from the breeze.
He glances over at the open cell,
Overwhelmed by fear to leave the place he knows so well.