Imprisonment

The calender on the wall
etched in pencil
The mattress flat
on its' frame.
Pacing.
Pacing.
Pacing.
Pacing.
My mouth is dry
like cotton
The water is brown
like clay
And like a man
with no shame
he drinks anyway.

The toilet seat is vacant
Should I sit down?
It reeks of a malignant fume
the kind that you can almost taste
if only you could stop breathing
and for a moment
a short moment in time
I befriended its scent.
To inspire wisdom.

All the doors were locked
There's no one coming!
My hands and feet
numb as I tremble

And in that golden hour
I never looked back
Those walls
still wait
for my return!

Non-Fiction Collection
©Bobby Ruelas 2009