A:
I reside in an abstract dimension where colors make no mention, but are as loud as the silence of a grave. Sounds come through in shades of black and gray. Where night is day and every day is always the same day.

B:
I reside in purgatory awaiting judgment. A seven-level structure, seven stories of nothing. Where ignorance reigns like a vicious monsoon and doom is a thunderous lightning spark. But to the inhabitants here, it is no more than an amusement park. Where the hopes for tomorrow are borrowed to purchase cotton candy dreams, and the carousel of intelligence spins into a roller coaster of sorrow for wishing in the make-believe.

C:
I reside where life goes to hide. Where I stay up all night in a dream state and wait for a resurrection. Trying to resuscitate death itself in order to feel alive. So I hold my breath and breathe through my mind. I try to envision my mission before I make a final transition into the outer limits. What if they are just another prison of infinite indecision?

A:
So I stay up all night and reside in my life. Analyzing my strife and plotting an escape from fate. I repeat the insomniac sleep of the dead until it is later than late.

B:
I am undead, dressed in clothes of emotion and wandering aimlessly in a 12- by 7-foot casket. Never moving. Never going. Only growing.

C:
Growing not in height, but in the dreadful delight that soon they will turn on the lights and I will see that I am not alone. Hordes of men roam this abstract dimension that I call purgatory—due to the words above my cell that read…

ALL:
“This is where life goes to hide.”

A:
I am finally allowed to close my eyes and sleep, while listening to my own personal lullaby.

B:
A lullaby of men in prison greens and guards with those heavy keys.

C:
Alone and far from home, there is no one to notice that I’m gone.
No more dreams of returning to a love who’s been lost all along.

A:
No hopes of mending a life that was torn. Just long sleepless nights that go on and go on and go on.

B:
This is what keeps me up at night…

C:
And allows me to sleep all day long.

Bartholomew Crawford , the author of the poem “My Block,” is now working on a book called “No Place Like Home.” His writings, which have been transformed into theatrical plays, are inspired by his life experiences growing up on Manhattan’s Upper West Side in the 70s and 80s, as well as his first-hand experience with the injustices of the criminal justice system. He is currently incarcerated in New York, serving 25 years for a burglary that he maintains he did not commit.

Tags: ,

Comments are closed.