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.