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Prism Break

In my dreams I visit the prison.

Walls of papers

Littered with black and white letters

of the law.

A singular window,

overlooks the purple sky

With cumulus clouds,

Harmless in passing.

Yet now bringing shadows

And another now,

The Sun.

Ever moving.

There’s no bed,

No respite.

Papers fly about,

Their thin edges slicing through air

And then,


Yet I bleed not,

And these deep cuts

Make me emptier still.

Blood would be warmer.

The window is oft my only respite,

In this cycle of

contained horror.

In between the slicing pests,

I can only gaze longingly

At what once was,

In hopes that it

Soon will be.


Half the day is night.

I’m hungry often.

Great jargons and humongous absurdities

Are stuffed down my throat

By the same papers

That carry names of those

That were once

My dearest friends.

Roughly lodged in my throat.

I retch violently,

And the same legalese

Splash across already convoluted walls.

Vomit the color of a chessboard.

A never ending cycle,

The prison turns to a prism.

And those that write

letters: black and white,

Look through in anticipation

At the cyclical gesticulations

That generate gold.

Alchemy off the pained.

Escape is impossible

Except by the hands

Of those stuck

Behind black frames.

Prisoner in a different mind.

I hope,

For the prism break.

And under purple skies,

I’ll fall asleep.

Notes: As always, this piece is a work of hyper-imaginative fiction. any similarities to persons living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

"Do or do not. There is no try." But there is. Trial is not just an oft painful reality, but an evolutionarily important one that builds survival resilience. All that being said, the process of building resilience is as devoid of its presence as can be; as paradoxical as possible, as absolutely humbling, as one could ever experience. And yet, we do. Sometimes, instead of a conversation, we choose letters, instead of soft hands, sharp swords - to what end, is always the burning question that is never answered until it is so late that the answer refuses to hold any meaning other than a feeble attempt at relief of a pain long badgered into reality. But all prisons are of the mind - and here's to hoping we can turn prismoid prisons into fragile glass that will break when there's willing hands on both sides. Here's to celebrating hope for Freedom, in the faith of one another!

Happy Independence Day!

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