Ink and Iron

I wore a raven on my skin, Not born of gang nor kindred sin, Just etched in ink, a flight of thought— But thought, it seems, is often caught. They came one dusk with boots and keys, Declared me marked for treacheries, And flew me far past time or trail— A soul in cuffs, a postmarked tale. They locked me in a land unspoken, Where silence hums and clocks are broken, Where guards wear names like "Order," "Doubt," And even dreams aren't let back out. I told them once, “This bird is me, A metaphor, not mutiny,” But metaphor, in courts of steel, Holds less than what the uniforms feel. My cell is cold. The floor, it talks In riddles made from shadow walks. The ceiling cries. The walls debate. A spider teaches me of fate. Each day I trace my feathered friend— The lines that twist, that never bend. And though they try to cage my name, A raven’s soul can't die the same. So sing, you ink! And dance, you skin! Though prisons bar the bone within, No tyranny, no badge, no law Can scratch the depth of what I saw. For thought survives where breath may cease— A stubborn song, a piece of peace. And those who jailed me for my hue Have ink inside them, hidden too.