The Inmate

There is a man, locked away. Shackled, chilled rusty bars, barb-wrapped fences apart from his fellow man. Shunned, unseen and unheard, stigmas of a world unknowing of repentance. Of reawakenings and redemptions. A walnut gavel, robed fist clenched, brought down upon the hard top of sacred bench, Its loud knock—a plank walk and a drop. The man, crestfallen, eyes on toes, led, tied, wrists to waist, foot to foot, away he goes. Cast overboard into the dark blue seas of oblivion and doubt. Seas achurn with the harsh musings of a mind sliced to its core— layer above layer of guilt, of unvoiced apologies, of myriad what ifs... Backed by time, poor choice, and circumstance, into the darkest of dead ends, forced to about-face, to look the monster in the eye. Spine pressed to cold red brick, heart pounding, temples afire. Nerves tingling, electric eels swimming through his veins. Starved for options, reduced to few, perhaps just two: To curl, to draw his knees into his chest, eyelids tight as the vices that brought him here. Or defy the fight or flight or freeze, and scrape at the settled dregs of a mind fettered and in turmoil and pain, too long closed and locked and limited by the fallacies of the white or black. To find a path, for a path must be, through the anguish and the agony, its steps shrouded to the calves in murky haze, invisible pavers, hidden, but there the same. To emerge the victor, made anew. A worthy man, he's me and you.