These Walls

Neither ‘Alcatraz’ nor ‘Folsom’ bore walls to scale such as these which loom ahead.

Barriers rise in the silent darkness which restricts the freedom of the walking dead.

The smell of life drifts in wispy, and sometimes a softly tone on the cool night breeze.

Yet the corridors of darkness stretch seemingly forever in the cold black chambers and eaves.

Thousands of souls walk these halls every unending night and secret silent day.

No words are exchanged as dead eyes stare into a hopeless future and in silence walk away.

Neither be these walls made of concrete or steel, but only of the mind which makes this prison so real.

Some are taunted by demons of a very distant past and others are born of their own making that forever last.

These walls in reality really to the sane and normal eye do not even exist.

Yet to those trapped behind these walls of torment of living, they persist.

Within these walls lies a small chapel, which through the bars one can see the fields of gray.

In a corner stands a small alter and a tiny golden cross, yet few if any stop to pray.

Sad, so sad it seems to me as I stand outside these walls, yet somehow see inside.

I realize that the multitudes which wander the halls in silence in some way touch my mind.

However I cannot reach them or even if I could they wouldn’t listen to me.

But their freedom lies in the small chapel amidst the fields of gray, and the answer to their freedom is the cross which is the key.

J. Allen Wilson © 11/23/2012