The Philosophies of Penalty

Tiptoeing down death row,
Fancies of crazies and barred safety.
The subtle puddles spurt bubbles,
And the iced floor has a warm sheen to it.

The guard is tall and strong, with shingles as shoulders.
The younger each of them get, the more I grow older.
I have evaded the accords of necrosis, the most common condition,
Up until now, for it is creeping up on me like a forest fire.

Reality has submitted, with a driven anger, lustful.
It will never forgive me for wasting the midnights held with silence.
I want to visit Euphrates, and meet Demeter,
And maybe defeat her, to make up for my mistakes.

Two murders for food, a bowl of rape to get me to sleep.
Keys are my music, shadows are my friends, wistful and brave.
A metal baton enforces how and how not to behave.
If I ever met redemption, I would wash his feet with wine.

The walls speak sometimes, sturdy and risqué.
They are handsome and explicit, howling ruthful.
I have abandoned my dreams, finally, to this day.
They have retired to the shores of azure and soft violet.

The other inmates have reverted to clicking inside,
Like some African language, foul and foreign.
Their souls, immortal and iron, have began to deteriorate,
As mine grows bolder with wise age.

But I don’t care, the Devil could’ve snatched this soul a long time ago,
When I was vulnerable and remorseful. I take a last look in my mirror,
My only mirror I’ve ever peered into. I comb my hair,
And tiptoe to the chair.

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