today was when they first looked me in the eye; their hands calm around their rifles, their faces smug with the confidence of the power that allowed them this.
I walked with them silently, knowing that if i made so much as a sound, they'd shoot me dead.
Poetry and prisons live off each other; each giving off a little energy, a little soul to the other's existence. Most often, the very walls of a prison are built with poetry; each iron bar wrought out of pure emotion and torment where poetry thrives.
We'd make peace with these walls for them to allow our little games, games that went beyond these earthly tethers and soared like eagles on warm air currents. The poetry wasn't in the words we scrawled on the floor to spend the hours when we weren't getting beaten up; it was in the silly laughter that ensued after a particularly heady session of beatings, it was in the fact that the prison rats were, in fact, free in the real sense, and it was in the days when the tiny window showed us that there would be rain.
Now and then we remember the days when we'd see the laughter in stupid things.
The sweat of our palms makes our hearts wet, we weep for ideas that have blossomed right here, within these prison walls but have lost strength and collapsed on the front step of these cold stone doors.
"And were will we go then?"
"I don't give a damn, all i know is that we need to get OUT of here to DO something!"
"Don't be a fool. you know well that they'd rather kill you and bury you here than set you free..."
*sounds of metal on metal, bells ringing*
in a quiet voice, "They're here."
The blood sprayed the pain he felt when being struck with the whip. he stared with upside down eyes at the fat man who was sweating from his armpits who was holding the bold broken leather strip in his fist.
Suddenly, he spat on his face. Enraged, the policeman struck again, making him bleed some more. he laughed in loud, hollow tones that made the policeman's hair stand on end. this was something he'd never been able to deal with; the steely laughter of this maniac who loved the blows of his whiplash.
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