As time dies every night

when it is quiet enough to hear the walls talk in their sleep,

after the doors are sealed shut

and echoes are the only form of life I can hear

but cannot understand,

I plan my escape over and over again,

locked down to nothing but my mind

that lies awake every night

wandering along the pleas that I have already taken,

replaying the verdict,

imagining some other prison,

a better cellmate,

maybe a window with a view.

The clock slowly ticks away at my sentence,

and although I cannot see it,

I can count the sunrise every day,

and breathe each time I feel the moon.

I pace the white walls back and forth,

kneel to concrete every so often

while my palms remain clenched together

pointed to the ceiling.

I silently scream at myself

refusing to sympathize

with my heavy shoulders.

I drink from a metal trough

attached to where I piss,

behind a cement wall

where my eyes make constant contact

with the prison guards

but no words are ever exchanged

between them and me.

I remain locked behind Georgia State Lines

injected with Kryptonite

that even Superman couldn’t bend

soon enough to save me,

and I can’t stop thinking about filtered water,

fresh coffee,

that first drag off of a Marlboro Light,

a shower with a curtain and a private toilet with a door,

and as I indulge in my life’s outside pleasures,

I realize,

that is not so much to lose,

yet still I count down, plot,

and wish for a guacamole burger with a milkshake,

and maybe some silent walls where I can get some goddamn sleep.