As he looks out past prison bars,

He magnifies the unkempt world:

Sees leftovers for Sunday lunch,

Dry sandwiches, with corners curled.


The paint is peeling off the doors;

The once-thumbed books are brown and frayed.

Through windowpanes, opaque with grime,

Lie bills piled high, as yet unpaid.


Most words recede in faded ink;

All vivid colours dim with age,

While in the far-off squares and lanes

Some strangers congregate in rage.


All this is far from his concern,

As he retreats to his domain,

Where he blanks out that cussed state

And won’t pretend to feel its pain.

◄ What Matters

Colours ►


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Stephen Gospage

Tue 11th May 2021 17:50

Thanks to everyone who liked this poem. This means a great deal to me.
Your comment is fascinating, Philipos. So pleased that you enjoyed the poem.


Mon 10th May 2021 17:31

Yes, I often wonder what goes through the mind of self reflecting recidivists especially those who lack family guidance in choosing a preferred course.

Many are the reasons for frequent transgressions.

Certainly something for us luckier ones to reflect upon.

Thanks for the blog and the prompt.


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