The Prisoner

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The Prisoner

Love dissapears slowly like a

cigarette in the rearview mirror

each day passing leaves me more barren

hatred and malace becomes stagnantly clearer

 

You stand on high pedastles waiting like a

hawk on power lines

intent to drive my mind to the ground

and catch me in the claws of your decaying life

 

The kindered spirit once open to thought

becomes hindered by your self loathing like a

fallen leaf in winters frost

Somewhere down a road where joy was lost

 

In hours passing one can count the battles like

distant fires in the midnight black

Their warmth and happyness

a fading memory lost in the optical illusion

 

I can hear yonder shores and waves

bearing freedom from your tainted embrace like

a key to a shackled man in chains

I think I’ll go to them now, and spare what still remains

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Poetry is what is lost in translation.

Robert Frost (1875-1963) American Poet.

Kingsbishop’s Poems (9)

Title Comments
Title Comments
Princess Present 2
The King of Ants and Stars 0
Fear Nothing 0
Deals With a Devil 3
Amidst the Rubble 1
Ice Man 0
Meditation Medication 1
Forgotten 0
The Prisoner 0

Kingsbishop’s Friends (1)