To live in the past must be scary a bit
Like you open the novel you’ve read
And it’s not quite the same what now you reread
What you have thought, felt and said
Seems distorted by memory, you ask yourself why
Should it continue like fictional
Though the fiction it’s not, but your own past time
Behaves in some way unpredictable
It's like the Pierre Menard effect in Borges's
Attempt to rewrite an old fable
Don Quixote, who apparently wasn’t obsessed
To fight mills, to impress his fair lady
Reappears as wiser and sadder in time
That hadn’t yet entered back then
To live in the past gives no hope to revive
That familiar feeling again
It speaks of nostalgia, back in the past
You’re trying to hide from the yearning
But it can’t provide you the same healing blast
On this lonely beach in the morning.
Dark Abyss
These dusty floors breed virus air,
With sinful souls that never care.
These focused eyes are seeing red,
A growing city of the dead.
Empty, hollow, all but sleepy,
Psycho villains thrive on creepy.
Awake I dream and walk my trance,
While fiends compose a terror dance.
A cemetery of the proud,
Some are scheming and some are loud.
The blood it flows, it drips, it’s cold,
A tale that’s screaming to be told.
The artist’s sting of tattooed hate,
An influx in the murder rate.
Download madness and programmed pain,
The ugly truth of violent fame.
A chaos theory of the fight,
Satanic children of the night.
We’re bruised and broken, mad and scarred,
A dark abyss that’s called Menard.
Kyle W Morgan, Menard Correctional Center, Maximum Security, Chester, Illinois
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