The miserable, mundane grind of life
Often smells like a penitentiary
With urinal cake lying, it is rife
Chlorine cologne cannot fool the wary
They recognize the stale stench of despair
Bars of shadow tattoo frustrated skin
The job, the marriage, the decaying flesh
All with a gloomy cell, one can compare
When claustrophobia threatens to squeeze
The last gasp of liberty from grey lungs
Recall that language, with elegant ease
Can build a gleaming ladder, with strong rungs
Fit to allow the mind to scale jail walls
And heed the muse's free voice, when it calls
About the Creator
D. J. Reddall
I write because my time is limited and my imagination is not.
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