black marks on calendars,
they laugh and recite tired,
prison limericks.
i force a smile to seem more human,
though remain alien inside.
i relate
those incarcerated,
those infiltrated,
those lacking hope.
another marker, another mile.
a sequence of numbers i don't understand.
borders are just lines on maps...
some lines keep our flesh together
we tear lines open in moments of weakness,
to extend,
quell fear,
protect bloodlines.
often it is better to constrict,
circle the wagons,
and lace barbed wire around us.
such horrific dark acreage, indeed...
NB @ 4:02 PM
2 Comments:
sounds like that could be the beginnings of a nice little prison for yourself. careful. it's a lonely world that way.
right.
have you even met him?
Post a Comment
<< Home