Prison

can hear the devil encouraging his wounds to sing as he drowns in the different versions of heaven. The colour blind robin is King amongst his kind. The eyes are lit in the paintings left on the stairs that wind up to heaven, hell have become interchangeable. Is the rose a prisoner of its thorns as the wind solicits the flowers quiet ministry, a prisoners conscience is reborn after externalising wounds and contemplating in silence, stories, sounds sought from fellow detainees. If I could freeze rain, pass every drop through a needles eye, make prison bars cry ventriloquist tears of deadened eyes in which the light is fading. Does the flame ever question the candles tenancy, cockroach in the cell is embalmed in candle dust I trust the winds to cloak the prison like a magicians tongue seducing an audience, the moon a wand, how close am i to magic, other prisoners to madness, I see revolution in a small flame, have become lost in the forest of a robins red breast, hell isn't red as I am led by song to heavens false threshold, clocks waltz into vision, movements out of sync after drinking what they believed to be holy water. I visit the four seasons where they share a cell. Winter offered incantations that would take me to the frozen waters of a wishing well containing an artists brush, in the shadows I could see summers bleeding wrists and hands, spring whispered demands for a painting of a bearded man.