Maura Levine | Write a Prisoner

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Maura Levine
5/16/2019

Inert

The silent, frozen landscape lies

just beyond these prison bars --

remote, dead, immutable, unholy,

under a half-wit moon.

And I -- bound and gagged

in bands of white cotton,

scarce breathing, without sleep

as the guard stalks the corridors

soundless, his keys muffled mercifully,

as many breathe in sleep all around.

I live by a sea of lost souls

in white metal cubicles,

a dormitory of the damned.

Every day the same, every night

a meme, marching lockstep

through misery, no choice but to

follow the pattern, the routine

of boredom and sameness, while

without

is life in all its withering.