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His face turned red though not of rage 
His hair grew gray but not of age
Locked inside, chained with steel 
Alone in the dark he could only feel 
The breathless silence
Growing heavy on his wounds
And the crown of thorns
Pricking the nerves of his skull 
He could smell the darkness
And taste its bitterness 
He could hear his scars 
Screaming for freedom 
The scars that reigned his skin 
For almost years of dullness…
Smells of dead rats covered the cell 
But he, instead of disgust
Felt calmed, secured in his shell
For at least now he knew 
It never left him, his crew
The friends he stayed with for years
And who helped him fight his fears 
Just being there before his eyes 
Was enough to let him feel 
That he never suffered alone.
The wind of the bitter snow 
Stroke him like knives 
Shuddering, he tried let go 
Of his chained hands and legs
But failed greatly as he greeted
Surrendering not with grief
But with an open heart 
Just like all the passed days 
Where when saw 
A glimpse of hope 
He tried to grasp it
But failed tremendously 
He got used to defeat
Accustomed to sorrow
Bleeding to his feet 
He felt nothing but hollow
So sad in soul 
And hurt in body
He wished he could fall 
And join his friends’ destiny
Where he could lie down
Dead, breathless, but peaceful 
Rather than being alive 
Desperate, hurt and rueful
Rather than living in a grave  
Engraved in regrets and pain 
Where no one can ever save 
Him except he himself…

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