Image courtesy of Keith Williamson and Flickr Creative Commons

Dirt crumbles,

Fingers trace a square

In the dust.

Squatting in the middle, I wait.

You fling a flurry

Of poisoned barbed words.

Silence– I refuse to answer,

Except for my trowel, mortar, bricks.

Slowly, my shield rises up

From bone dry earth.

Higher, higher, I build this perfect room

To keep you out.

But I never intended

To wall myself inside

This prison tomb.


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4 thoughts on “Prison

    1. I’ve been thinking a lot about words and how the affect our soul(more than usual even for a poet writer). The power of life and death is in the tongue…our words.  Such power for grace and hurt.

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