Prisoner

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
Prisoner - Please comment on this poem.

Submitted: August 20, 2017

A A A | A A A

Submitted: August 20, 2017

A A A

A A A


Confined eight… two… eight… hundred

Seconds tick measured

One hour out

Walkabout

 

Time served with every tick

A room so small drives men insane

No warming sun, gust or gale,

No clouds swirl or torrent rain

 

Feeling free after letting go

Someplace deep in mind bestow

Nomadic mind runs amok

A smiling face upon the clock

 

Guards of grey tell me ill always stay

Tick-toc ever mock

Crimes committed condemned they say

I laugh and throw a beam there way

 

For I am free and they are not

Prisoners of fait they serve my food

Close my gate… hope I’ll rot

Trapped earnings changing mood  

 

Money they squander

My minds free to stray

They look to yonder

A prisoner of pay


© Copyright 2018 S P Rowell. All rights reserved.

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