I pull at the shackles
Bound to my wrists
The flesh now rubbed raw by my struggle,
I wince

I stare into the darkness of my prison,
A small shoe box room,
Windowless

If I could shed tears,
They would run down my cheeks
Burn hot against my skin,
Drip on my feet

But I do not whimper
I do not despair
For, the guards will see
And punish me

Self-pity is a great atrocity

And so I sit
My legs crossed
On the cold fractured cement

I sink into my imagination
If I were a bird I would fly free
The warmth of the sun's fingers
Would envelop me

I would drift with the will of the wind
Down grassy slopes,
Glowing green
In the light of spring

I open my eyes,
Once more in my prison
Once more in the dark,
Wether it be day or night
I see no glimmer of light

This is my life
My only expectation
My only strife

I know all too well
Change is not immeint
I am stuck in a shell

Yet this is not such a tragedy
Even in this blackness
In the gloom of this seemingly eternal tomb
I am not alone

I can hear the others moan.