The grip on the bar,
letting the rust,
just sneak into frail skin,
as a tear stain face,
eyes looking out in the distance,
watching as the sun sets,
while the moon coasts by,
on how long it has been,
the time just fades away,
yet the grip remains the same,
stiff as the dead,
yet the raising chest does not go,
living within a prison,
of the mind or body,
after so long,
it doesn’t matter anymore,
doing bad, or just caught off guard,
the bars are always the same,
the emotions that come,
wither or grow,
cocky or just,
sad or proud,
in a set way,
freedom will be around the door,
in death,
or by the sound of a creaking fence door,
at this moment,
how far this matter,
doesn’t come close,
in the aftermath,
being the fool or the foolish,
behind the bars,
doesn’t change everything,
that could be a winner on one side,
doesn’t change from those have lost,
and being on the other end,
being on what it is,
the bars are what it divides it all,
yet could it mean anything else,
in just finding the freedom,
yet as the years change,
the meaning of that word also,
losing what it could be really,
as freedom just forms,
within lies and truth,
a mist of hue of life,
burring into as it becomes,
nothing else,
just nothing else left,
but do the time,
for the crime,
even if the blood on one’s hands,
is only false,
and forever truth white lie,
stretched out,
to almost become,
a sheen veil,
choking out the air to breath,
but else is there now,
but to just do the time,
live it out,
and remark freedom as a hallucination,
made by those,
who don’t what it is,
as well,
the one thing that is common,
yet also walls away,
free will verve.




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