In a Prison Called Mind

Locked up in an enclave With no threads nor bars Confined to a gaol of wit Tied upon the folds unkind. So weary from an inkling As the moment's trance pound upon my thinking But this heart is pure Not fit for a hole as filthy as foul. In a prison called mind My legs do tremble within its walls, Like every convict seeking the air of freedom, I seek mine from the hands of boredom. Darkness spreads upon the moment's reverie Far across the land and the skies- They taunt and haunt our very being Setting our foot upon a land of thorns. What if I watched from this dark walls And paint a gloom of what beholds man? What if I remain as meek as a muted flute And fail to sound from the towers of justice? Will I still be free from this prison called mind? My nerves seems restless Wishing to be subdued by this poetic recess, But every sad tales- That grace the moonlight Is of woes and callousness. Those woes: Of broken homes and shattered dreams, of grief and death beyond pity's sill, Of hunger lingering on crumbling hill. From the cruellest of lands On the streets children take to arms, And mothers wander helpless in search of alms. Poverty and ignorance are still to hang on the scaffold, Like a flood it sweeps across our land. In this lone wall Where thus peasants call And the trampled in dusty mash- Order the day to a gallant march. To bring relief to the people To stand by men when comrades call; Never to languish in this prison called mind.