By Ian Copestick
As I walk there’s a pleasant, green landscape
full of young flowers, and trees so old.
But it doesn’t encapsulate
the colours in my soul.
There are dark, deep blues, purples and blacks
Around the edges a crimson rage.
Even now, I have to hold some of it back,
or it would set fire to this page.
When I was young, I thought I
would calm down.
Mellow out with age.
As I get older my face is lined from my frown,
my soul is still locked in a cage.
The cage of life, from which you can’t escape
until you face your death
I try to tunnel out, I dig and I scrape.
I will until it’s my last breath.
I’ll keep digging, I’ll scream and shout
and I’ll keep on and on, keep trying.
But I know that I will never make it out
until the day I’m dying.