Each day they come to look at me
the windows small..yet, still they see
the faces grimmace and reflect
what must appear...a humble wretch.
Shackled, chained, both hands and feet
a shrunken, hollow, shell that weeps
A ghost of life, on bended knee
and tomb that echoes, "sinner heed".
Graying flesh and hobbled bone
waiting endless years alone
the only love the world has shown
to madness held at bay by stone.
But do they see, can they suspect?
Alone here in this silent cript
a glimmer still, of life resides, inside the heart
behind the eyes.
And though their laughter causes pain
my heart has pity for their shame
for whose to say, who's sane or free.....
the ones that come to look.....................or me. |
