Prison of the Self
anyone else would be hard pressed
to find an 8x8 that brought with it
stronger bars, harder concrete,
less sustenance provided &
a bed that would put the iron maiden to
shame,
when it comes to the prison of the self---
how much hate can go into the energy it takes
to relive the moments that have already passed,
only to beat oneself up
again & again,
as if this time around,
something new, some kind of clue as to why
one acted in such a manner,
will pop out & make it all clear
so that suddenly some kind of closure, or
some kind of calming of the mind will
arrive---
rather, it is all the faces from the past that continue to plague the
present &
all the sands of time that travel through the cupped hands
now dry, cracked & wrinkling,
without a moment’s pause
as those around said
mental
memory producing
masochists
tremble & wither throughout their days
tremble & wither
as the fragility within shows on the outskirt of that very skin
doing its best to
hold it all in---
but if you look ever so closely in the eyes
you can see the bars themselves &
a person dying in the corner
of that very cell,
unforgotten &
unforgiven.
Copyright © Andrew Delapruch | Year Posted 2012
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