Work Text:
In this cage,
Lies a nervous,
Pitiful man,
whose skin was a tr'e red,
And in this cage, this man is encaged by pearl bars. Pallor in color.
But you see, this man is no prisoner–no convict who subjected himself to prison,
Th’ t’ue pr’soner is the warden–
One level above this red man whose blue veins bulged at each thrum, was the prisoner
Skeptic, disgusted, his –the warden’s–robes and face ashen pink.
The warden paced, pac’d, p’c’d, he paced.
Skeptic of the man and all the inmates that rested below and beside the red man,
Enraged, his own marble dome cell was not as beautiful as th’ nerved inmate’s pearls!
He dreamt–oh he dreamt, the warden dreamt of the day the man dressed in red would stop thrumming his string’d toy and turn to the shadee of his bars!
Dread! Dread it was–he— the warden had not even placed the man in the cell, nor did he did imprison the twins that were on either side of the red man.
He didn’t incarnate the tan glutton who engulfed food constantly,
The warden was a prisoner in his own prison
Scraping at the walls of the dome, desperate to get out as the man thrummed, louder, louder!
In every story the enforcer was the villain!
No literature spoke of the beauty of the mind,
To sitop such a thrum
He had
One thing to do
To hollow out the stringed toy that the red man played.
For a hollowed heart is infinitely greater than a poisoned mind.