I am sitting among roses painted orange.Part of a garden with electric fencing, trapped in a dangerous nature. The Jackson State prison, disguised in the emerald forest, isolated from the city. It is my home, for the next year. To still my rapid thoughts I decided to join a particular group of people. Right now, the dry air pushed me to listen to fake lips. Before me stood a pastor in shackles, raising his head over an audience of sinners. He too, is a ghost in it's prime. He made a collar from cardboard, painted it grey. His uniform looked insane, but he stood with an authority that shaded his clothing. He seemed middle-aged, barely standing with a weak knee but attentive to the audience before him. His eyes are stern, the contours lining his face made him look older then he actually was.I am among that crowd, eagerly clinging onto his words , having thirst as a mistress. Some, didn't care for his faith. His optimism was shown with a turned back, silver and sly.The utopia spewing from his mouth is inaudible to the depraved souls. Their eerie whispers unnerving me from behind. They spoke in hushed tones, shading their intentions. I tried to ignore them but curiosity is my weakness. I turned my head just a little bit, my ear twitched at their actions. No words were exchanged but noises were apparent.
A substance exchange had taken place. A man, having the audacity to smile, with rotten teeth sat proudly, undaunted by the pastors words. It's shocking, but understandable. This place of refuge was turned into a business area, by criminals holding hands with religion. The benches held empty bodies with lunatic tendencies.
The aura surrounding the already decomposing field became strained. The pastors words no longer become hopes, they morphed into reminders of regret. His tongue dripped sense that reckless teens lacked. I shook my head. I glanced at the stained glass window shadowing the pastor. I began to appreciate the architecture of it, how the variety of glass panels and lead canes created a versatile artwork. The multi-colored lights raised above the gloom of the evening still danced.A dragged monotone stripped me from my serenity. The harsh voice of the warden stomped into the room.
I was thrown into a cell. It reeked of anger, the hatred was punched into the walls and tears made the silk of the bed .Etched onto the walls were screams, claw marks became it's art. I could feel the presence of a dying ghost. I stood at the caged window, assessing the room and it's faults. What grabbed my attention were the markings on the wall. Graffiti of a madmen. Blood stains from cracked nails created words with mixed meanings. There too were gang symbols, proudly stained on the bricks.I touched the dented wall, the dust hung on to the tips of my fingers. There were life stories fading into the wall, the words giving up like their writers. Loosing their shade. I remembered something, I scratched through my pocket and retrieved a photograph. A picture of my daughter. Seeing her innocent smile, made me brush the brown streaks of my hair in frustration. I leaned onto the wall , the brick scratching my forehead. Then I stepped back, reorganized my thoughts and stared at the plain white wall.I pasted it right in the middle of that sorrowful wall, hoping that her aspirations would cause the words to scream in meaning. As naive as she was, she had dreams that these walls would never contain.
