Behind Bars Is Freedom

Fallen tears in their bulbous form,

Drift off into withering rivers,

And slither the Melpomene pores

As they reject the frozen face where tears

Begin as falling stars,

Till they become droplets

On the common floors, like

Scattered seeds meant to franchise,

These forever blues, are still and oval

The impact shattered whole to

Shards of glass,

But not corroded the newly painted

Ebony floorboards, —no—elder tears

Cannot even bring to change new colors

And these thorny bars, that stripe the face

Shadows of red, white, and blue, hold

Innocent prisoners in a space’s innermost space

So claustrophobic, and so bleak, that

To breathe fresh air,

Would equally be a waste as to exhale,

A scalding taste of the Sun’s tear from the pipes, up there, may quench a thousand but here, not a soul, nor a wary eye to keep spy, on my own eye, they could hardly see, there is a war in me, a fire that dims the lake, yet flushes the deep sea, I, this prisoner can somehow break all conventionality—

I am dangerous but a little less behind bars of the constitutional grips,

My ear curdling yells of truth, my hungry neighs, raging hoofs that stamp the crawling oppression, become blindside to the labotomy of controversy,

They have a hold on freedom, they have freedom behind bars