having a life at all… one that is...

apart now from within these four rectangular walls.

Made of wood, satin, and a hint soft rancid decay,

 I with them come face-to-face with, day after everlasting day.

You see, time has become my enemy and has entrapped my weary mind,

For all I see, are four stark walls that inch by inch close in on me.

A windowless prison they are, that only yesterday measured ten by nine.

Or was that just a trick of the mind…or perhaps even a dream…

“Oh Pity me”, said myself to I……

For alone am I, in this wooden box that I now call home,

Longing for a humans touch or words of comfort shown,

But nay, oh nay, for it is my misery and comfort shall never be,

for when I measured today, they were six by three.

And then to my surprise,

I hear noises from outside,

“What is that they say?”

“Speak up”…

For I cant make out a sound.

And then suddenly as clear as day,

I hear a man begin to pray

“Yeah, though I walk through the valley”….

And then…another sound…one of shovels

Separating an unforgiving ground…

Swhirrsh…Swhirrsh goes the dirt

And I now in sadness, close my eyes to sleep

For this box of six by three, is mine to keep.

 J. Allen Wilson © 2004