Shawshank Prison

by Venetia Bradfield

Prison is…
a small, metal plate lined with cold, viscous eggs,
tattoos carved in arms, and shackles on legs,
a scream in the night as a man calls and begs
for his mama who never will hear him.

Prison is…
a dark, filthy cage simply reeking of fear,
where threshold guardians taunt and they jeer,
he hears them whispering as they come near,
”He'll never escape here alive.”

Prison is…
a graveyard that’s full of the cruel, walking dead,
a place to grow eyes in the back of your head.
Without them they’ll find you alone in your bed
bullied and battered and broken.