There's not enough room to roam in tight places.
My dove's wings don't seem to work without staples.
Yet I try to stay gone all the time.
Because they'd never give me a ticket home.

The world zooms in and retreats, Then fades back behind a swarm
Of gray-blanched shadows
Of dust and ignorance on the drab prison air
Seething with hatred and oppression.
It ain't easy making friends.

Sometimes I don't get to see the sun for years
And the moon tosses only
Faint flickers of light.

So I write.
What else--
What else can I do?