July 9, 2013
by Randy Chaplin (author's profile)


In this cell I call home, the sorrow
drips and rolls, permeates my sleep
and waking, all my existence, it
never lets go, I wake from sleep
dreaming crying, sobbing, oh my
dear love, oh my dear ones, you
know me, you know me, you know!

Was there no other course for our
poor Kandy, he struts and frets,
you could see the scarecrow, so
humiliating, the wet rickety birds
feathers splayed and broken, picking
and pecking wrapped their glorious
supposed to be, shining and flying
from his harvest of sorrow and
misery, even the memories, for the
most part, fatal, mistaken, lost
and hopeless. Oh my dear love love
oh my dear ones, you know me, you know
the terrible price I'm paying.
I am not dressed in white, nor
exemplary of God in His hour.
I am covered in scars, diseases,
and failure, in life sentences,
in horror, my murderous neighbor
laughing, ghosts and dead people
drift through the hallways, the
madness sustaining our Wardens.
Brothers dead, Father & Mother
passed without so much as
a dew drops sweet attendance
from their son, the road warrior
of hope, brings back nothing,
nor even returns from the
daydream for his sweet mommy.
It's darkening in here, but
still this waning twilight.

M.R. Chaplin


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