some kind of way out of here
in the archives
they let me spend my time
weaving tales of prison breaks
not even the watchtower
can contain
this life inside
the loneliest place on earth
would break the common man
but here I sit and sail away
stealthily
once a month
I wander the yard and chat
with all the pretty young ladies
who stopped writing me
years ago
in my mind
I lived out my days in paradise
where the flowering perennials
rooted before the breach
still flourish
june two thousand thirteen
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