Untitled

And he looks
With eyes red and bitter
He wishes with his fist
He could write a word, a letter

The paper sits blank
His mind it is shallow
Filled with thoughts beyond the paper
The thoughts they are callow

He gazes before him
The pens on paper scratching
The Gentile and their words
And him his socks not matching

Here in this room of knowledge
He shall remain
Until before him sits a page
Whether ink or blood on paper stain

His gaze averted
Through the glass to the flowers
The sun does shine
In the shade a dog cowers

A silent wish he makes
If only he would be free
Away from the room...that page
Images of what he could be

The illusion soon shattered
With the whip of a cane
A thundering voice
A wrist shooting with pain

He once again looks
Eyes red and bitter
If only it would come to him
That word that letter

---

By Corrina