touched

“she’s crazy”, they said.

whispers

in the halls,

blind mirrors,

invisible,

screaming calls.

“She is well”, doctors testified. 

They found a way
to hang her dreams,
mother and son,
grueling, plotting
their evil schemes.

“lock her up”, they repeated.

feet shackled

hands tied

tears streamed

down rain chains,

insanity mystified.

Sad story. True. Except she learned to live behind the walls. Idle hands that once made art, now folded, praying for death. A long life, perhaps atonement for sins. Fair? Probably not. It rains on both good and evil. Still, she wondered why God had her suffer. The rest of her life tormented. 

Poetry

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