The Fleeing Convict

Some say it is a free world out there, some say it is a harsh world we live in. Whether someone is imprisoned by uniformity of thoughts or by his peers’ persuasion, there is inescapable feeling of a little bit dead inside within a “convict” of life. This edition contributor, Marco, sheds his contemplation in a poem.

It’s human behaviour
you know, cubing every single things
to obscure their limited knowledge
those megalomaniac
created the sorting tool, order
and convicted every antithesis as sin

Once, a convict for sins
wanted to escape the cubed space and time
his companions said,
imbecile are you, death awaits outside
he said,
where is inside, where is outside,
where are we?
prison, they said
oh yes, prison
that’s what they called
a place to seal the antithesis on the outside
asylum, they said
oh yes, asylum
that’s what they called
for their fear of the dark on the outside
not much difference for the convict
where is life?
he asked again to the depth of their eyes
here, some said
order sundered our place from them, some said
home, some said
we are accepted here, some said
the convict knew some were right

Poor, poor souls
they are the order of them self
they are the judge of them self
they are the jury of them self
they are the executor of them self
they are the doctor of them self
there is no inside
there is no outside

That night, the convict ran away
his flesh was feasted by the ravens
as free as he is
from the worldly cube.