What folly is this
you poke me with firey fingers
i ice then smear
but still my skin prickles and burns
i am a barometer
i know what things you can do
if i could peel back
the layers of skin &
soothe the joints and muscles
with holy oil
cast you out
of my body
but you poke my head
i am incarcerated
within these walls of pain
until NATURE creates
balance and harmony again
copyright: D.M.Tchir April 14/11
This poem captures the physical and psychological pain of this prison perfectly.
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