Here we are
again
My jailers delight
in my torture
A picture is placed
in front of me
What is it am
I seeing they ask
I barely glance
at the it
I tell them what
they don’t want to hear
It is a prison
I see
Don’t you see
it too?
No matter how
intricate the pattern
is
I can tell them
nothing less
They take the picture
away and place another
in front of my gaze
It looks like
a lock I tell
them
They smile and
think they’ve
progressed in breaking
my sanity
I await the next one
with glee
This game could be
fun
Maybe the next one
will look like a key
About the Creator
Keep reading
More stories from Shannon Feltner and writers in Poets and other communities.
The Blue Ridge Stalker
Tom had left the Ford down the way, its spark plugs finally exhausted and no mechanics for a dozen miles back through the foothills to Strossburg. No matter, he had worn his boots—almost as if he planned for this to happen. The puzzle he sought to solve emanated from the woods clinging to the slopes above; the valley behind held no mysteries.
By Stephen A. Roddewig6 days ago in Fiction
Comments (1)
The rhythm and imagery create a sense of tension, as if the walls themselves whisper secrets of confinement and control. A beautifully dark and thought-provoking piece—well done!