By Horace Thomas
The world I live in
is a concrete cell
up above is heaven
below is hell…
It’s merely a plot of land
where souls are captured
like pirates out to sea
who missed the rapture…
In another sense a circus
all sorts of whims
not a groovy aspect of life
but it’s own dangerous realm…
Prison is a town
a torn bitter place
scars affect the mind
no time can erase!
Mental combat
physical war
pushed beyond a limit
too much is how far?