Lamarr Starkim Little

Prison nights are silent and full of emptiness.

Some nights I stay up late to read.

While reading, cries of those condemned can be overheard.

Inaudible whispers echoing off the walls.

Sadness envelopes me,

Like a state blanket covered in lint, or maybe shade or rain

Yeah, rain—that’s more like it.

Because it feels as if I’m soaked in an abyss of steel,

Wondering if my voice will echo.

I can’t hear myself, but I know,

One day I will.

I continue to listen.


And expecting.

However, nothing.


I turn a page to continue, but the book feels heavy;

The words are moving.

My eyes attempt—though unsuccessfully—to hold them still.

Objects lacking in form.

A toilet flushes, dragging my dreams away.

Washing out at a faraway place.

Somewhere I’ve never been and never will see.

Somewhere full perhaps, filled with hope.

Unlike this hollow cell.

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