Night not the night echoes, these words
not words turnkey echoes.
Dark ink on page, those legible, prison a book isn't night,
but night's color, this ink.
Shackles sense to sense.
Listen to my hand, this prisonyard, full of song.
This pond enchained, heaven, in echo, but heaven broke free.
Not this, not this word, these words.
No book can, as nothing from nothing flee.
I have no defense but one plea, a wild innocence not ease,
must sing the sparrow, a convict, in my throat,
no torn page will release.
To tear the page is perjury, and perjured song will cease.
Every separation, echo is a link.
Every book a prison turnkey, every prison a nest.