A Prisoner. Poem by Janet Ramsden

A voice echoes then rebounds
to a figure laying still, on a
frame of wood and steel.
A stiff blanket of grey, his naked
body to conceal. He lays his head
on dead cells, his pillow made of
cotton. Thoughts of comfort fill his
mind, of his evil yet to yield.

Thoughts of a warm, cosy bed,
his partner by his side.
A fridge full of beer and needles,
and frustration builds up inside.
Tension, anger and seething hatred
of a world he can't abide.

Reason and logic has no meaning
to one who is full of the devil.
His lofe knows only darkness,
he rebukes and shrivels up,
at the very thought of light.
And yet he begs for help.
Wants to be understood.
If only he would open the door,
and throw off that ugly hood.