Thought of a Poem on Being Restricted, or Belonging to...

    I am a prisoner to this planet.

    I am fastened to its pulls and needs.

    Like a car, which I maintain with its fuels and tires and engine

    Issues

    We all have issues

    Like gravity and mortality and bills to pay.

    Bills, which some are taxed, even.

    Bills on bills, really.

    You are an inmate with me.

    We look through different cells where we abide

    Through varying prisms of this prison

    But at least it is vast.

    Yet, and alas: we do wind up confining ourselves...

    To streets, towns, countries, families, spouses, religions.

    

    Practices and habits.

    Needs and requirements.

    Jonny Cash sang to the boys at Folsom

    We are they

    Captive and listening

    Awaiting the bell to ring and to get our food

    Another tray of the same 

    We are not stuck, but we are.

    Imprisoned by our own devices, some say

    And sing

    Even wail.

    But that is okay, it is all right.

    We can enjoy the circles and orbits and ellipticals

    That entrench us and enmesh us

    Because there is more of our planetary life to explore

    There are much bigger yards to roam

    We can escape its fences and towers and snipers and guards

    We can walk free

    Perhaps that will be momentary, ephemerous, intangible

    Or even death.

    For now, I enjoy my prison walls

    My cellmates

    The downward gravity and age

    That works its magic and trends, patterns, and analytical precision

    I love being locked up here. (I can wriggle loosely fine)

    I do not want to be anywhere else

    With anyone else.

    Taking my time enjoying the clink.

    The Big House?

    It is pretty big.

    So, we draw contentment from our sentences.

    Free to pay our time here.