The Prisoner’s Dreams
Rots in his hole,
Feasting on maggots,
And rats,
Shivering in the damp cold,
Jerking off to girls from movies and the internet.
He is a prisoner of no nation,
He is a prisoner of loneliness,
A prisoner of his own strange quirks,
His crude humor,
Vengeful temper,
Poor Hygiene,
Delicate ego,
Everything,
That make it impossible to love him.
Shunned by friends and family,
Reviled by the authorities,
Rejected by the insurgents,
The prisoner,
The malcontent,
The asshole,
Lives alone,
Only his filth to keep him company.
Hair thinning,
Bones creaking,
Eyes crying,
Teeth falling out,
The poor fucker,
Has no reason to live.
No reason,
Except his dreams.
Dreams of sweet memories,
And grand fantasies,
They keep him alive,
Sustain his mind,
As meat sustains his belly.
Memories of joy,
Of holding hands,
Of laughter,
Of the time someone found him so wonderful,
That they fell in love with him.
And fantasies of glory,
Of adventure,
Of facing fears long spent festering in his heart.
The memories and the fantasies bleed together,
Into a tapestry of hope and longing.
The past and the future,
His deeds,
His ambitions,
Forming the foundation,
Of his dreams.
Imagined fingers caress his face,
Half-forgotten voices sing his praises,
A woman he hasn’t seen in five years,
Weeps as she embraces him.
Bittersweet promises,
Of the life he desires,
The life that seems more remote,
Than Heaven and Hell.
They fill him,
With a spirit,
Inaccessible in his waking hours.
The dreams are as real,
As the vermin in his stomach,
And just as nutritious.
The dreams are more real,
Than the ones who scorned him.
The dreams are a hopeless delusion.
The dreams are his life.
The dreams are all he has.
The dreams are all we have.
