Their eyes are downcast, torn from the
sky as is a fallen bird
Their feet shuffle about, torn from the
dance as is a mouse squashed
underfoot
They are the boarding school, torn from
world as is a broken quill, sobbing on
inside, making noises inconceivable
I have been here many years, and I am
not like them yet
But there's always a possibility
I have nothing to say to them, nothing to
laugh about
They don't laugh, anyway
This I think is very sad
I feel my quill breaking now, my eyes
looking down
My mouse heart tearing
I feel secure, but not content
I suppose I should stop now.
This is an Ode to Our Prisons