Out or where it used to be
on the inside of the quandary
where the polka dots don’t join.

I moan and
not because of an
imagined pain.

My mind is sick of
being tricked
my eyes rest on the stars,
I’m in a nine by six foot cell
chewing on the bars.

Even floating points when they
finally float by
cant look me in the face when
I ask them the reason why.

If I die and it’s no done deal
I wonder how I then will feel.
and will I give a damn?

© 2017, John Smallshaw.