Grandma's Food

I deeply miss tacos, pizza's delight,

but grandma's cooking haunts my nights.

In this cell with tasteless fare,

I long for meals with loving care.

Both my grandmas, culinary queens.

Their food, a comfort in my dreams,

I remember Sundays, family feasts.

Now traded for these prison beasts.

Grandma's pies, a crust so sweet,

the way she'd cook, a rhythmic beat.

Her hands, with love, would knead the dough,

creating magic, a warm, soft glow.

The other’s stew, rich and hearty,

gathered 'round, a festive party.

Each bite, a taste of home so dear,

now lost in time, brings forth a tear.

The blandness here, it strips my soul,

no warmth, no love, no fragrant bowl.

Just lifeless plates, day by day,

in this prison, where dreams decay.

I close my eyes, and I can see,

a kitchen warm, calling me.

The scents, the sounds, the family cheer.

A life that feels so far from here.

I miss their meals, the love they poured.

Into each dish, forever stored.

In memories that keep me warm,

through prison’s cold and heartless storm.

Oh, to taste their food once more,

to feel that love right to my core.

But here I sit, with sorrow deep,

as prison food makes my heart weep.