If You Make It To The Sally Port
notches made in haste not waste not fashion
a weapon fashioned out of odds and ends
keep the angle close to the chest
keep the arc close to the neck
flurry after flurry
fight for your life
all eyes upon everyone here
scratches on the walls mark the days
segregated by the administration of healing
some say it will heal you if you live through it
most do live, but what dies? when and where does it give in?
what flies away in well lit moments of hopelessness among the lost?
what comes home to roost in the darkened corners of every turn here?
its not what you think, its not that it wasn't made to sound like a form
of redemption you might have missed along the way to the forum as
chariots sidetracked down blind alleyways paved with broken bones
penance required for time sentenced, served, paroled out and away
as long as it was meant to be endured like a burning pain under raw skin
that fits too tight in every dark corner where someone is always watching
even when you look in the mirror there is someone checking up on you
better make sure you have the proper front in place like your own
personal sociopathic loin cloth that makes you king shit of no man's land
just cells of life joined to dying cells that meant no harm as children
as they once laughed and played in inner recesses of broken brain daydreams
skipping away over sunlit hilltops for two into the echoing distance
as the reality of these echoing walls filled with conversations that mask
murderous fears forming into gangs of swarming violence at the ready
one false move is all it takes as you think of love with the sounds of toilets
flushing you think of welcome home days with screaming fits of delusion
bouncing around your head like crowns of thorns you think of lovers you
know in truth you will never hold again as the ancient sounds of misguided
lust intruding as power given or power taken away drift through the stinging
air of the sharpened night as terror places its wreath at your feet as people who
feel the most righteous of any in the land (as most seem to do) tell their children
about the healing place they sent all the men that deserved it to to make up for what
they did so long ago to make this place a safer place to get them out of they way that
seems to not care enough to join the ranks of what was given as order as they break inside
only to share the break with you or you or you when we meet outside the moment that
all was lost in the losing of the human feeling of the connection of the bargain as it all went
south and the chips feel where they may as ten days straight in leg irons will make you
abide by the rifles held over head and all the walls point in the same direction here
and all the iron sings like wild banshees loosed from hells grasp singing with metallic
throats that deride all the moments that tear the thoughts of what peace used to mean
in the twisting of time in the bending of mind that folds in on the heart and has so little
to do with the soul on ice as it is said about this life in the cooler in the warehouse of
humanity lost for all the things they did now that they wonder little about all they
have done that they were never caught for never cared for never loved for
it’s a never never land if you never make it out of here you have to move on it
like it’s the only chance you will ever get if you do make it out of here, somehow
