Prisoner

If my road was paved in gold,
Would the walls of grievance fall?
Upon the breast plate of my soul
I find nowhere unknown to the depths of something else withdrawn.

And as I sit in careful rememberance of my will,
To be insecure of a vein that doesn't seem to pump
The choicest of my real blood,
Just let it drain to the sidewalk
Marring it, like a jam stain on a table cloth...

And as I remain a prisoner of my own feelings
I will not breathe the fresh air of brave and free men.
I'll stay in the darkness, bitter like the herbs of Israel
With not enough joy like sweet wine to cut the taste...

Abigail Hinds

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