by Juney Thomas
There's a tree in the courtyard-
the only happy place, well hung with
sepia pictures and an old familiar blanket.
Looming behind that is the Alcatraz
where the locked rooms of my head
have all kinds of memories
lying in them.
Some lie on the floor in a piteous
mess of simpering flesh.
Some rage around the room-
demanding forever to be let out.
Then, there are those that i
love too much to let free.
Theyy might kill me-
they're too pretty.
Then there are those
death row prisoners-
waiting in the
still moist green stone mossy tear sections,
soon to be hung, drawn and quartered.
where do you see yourself in five years?
Last updated September 18, 2011