The Row I’ve Hoed Bears Bitter Death
Sometime the rain falls and I’m never aware of it.
I’m sound-proofed from the world.
Cursed to witness but not participate.
Sometimes the sound of thunder is lost in the cacophony of shouting men,
Screaming their grievances to apathetic guards;
Their prayers to an indifferent deity.
The only time I hear the rain is when it leaks through the crack in the ceiling.
It’s the melodic symphony of water dancing off of the leaves or earth or man-made edifices.
No, this sound has more of a dull metronomic quality as it slaps the stone floor.
Each drop is a tiny defibrillator that shocks me back to reality;
The needle that pierces all my dreams.
After the rain has fallen I plug up the cracks in my concrete sky,
Shut off the light that became my fluorescent moon and stars and finally fall asleep.
This is where my life’s journey has taken me and dropped me off,
Like a child on the first day of school… kicking and screaming.
A ten by six cell where I play at being God.
Creating, destroying and rearranging and likewise, becoming indifferent to the world.
I’m sound-proofed from the world.
Cursed to witness but not participate.
Sometimes the sound of thunder is lost in the cacophony of shouting men,
Screaming their grievances to apathetic guards;
Their prayers to an indifferent deity.
The only time I hear the rain is when it leaks through the crack in the ceiling.
It’s the melodic symphony of water dancing off of the leaves or earth or man-made edifices.
No, this sound has more of a dull metronomic quality as it slaps the stone floor.
Each drop is a tiny defibrillator that shocks me back to reality;
The needle that pierces all my dreams.
After the rain has fallen I plug up the cracks in my concrete sky,
Shut off the light that became my fluorescent moon and stars and finally fall asleep.
This is where my life’s journey has taken me and dropped me off,
Like a child on the first day of school… kicking and screaming.
A ten by six cell where I play at being God.
Creating, destroying and rearranging and likewise, becoming indifferent to the world.
©Irving Davis
This poem was written some time ago by "my" Death Row inmate. I know my posts on this subject are unpopular, but do read it if you have a minute. He's a gifted and sensitive writer (btw I do have his permission to publish his work on my blog).
This poem was written some time ago by "my" Death Row inmate. I know my posts on this subject are unpopular, but do read it if you have a minute. He's a gifted and sensitive writer (btw I do have his permission to publish his work on my blog).
