Mad-man

Strumming the chords to his guitar,
He plays a song,
Of the prison walls...that no one sees.

He longs for the higher planes,
For the uncontaminated air,
To dance the dance of contentment...without feet.

His songs ask the question of patience,
With rage, that he masks in subtle notes,
Of, how much longer?

He longs to tell of his sufferings,
The cuts and scars that those around him scoffs-off,
Would no one understand?

For now, just for now,
He remains...here!