Prison Garden

Watching gardens bloom
watching them die
full circle
surrounded by
stone faced bricks that
have been bled dry;
illusions for my eyes.
But what of them?
Do they feel trapped;
their roots tunnel under
where I can’t go?
A refuge of nature
that is less refuge
and more show
than all the mini-motors
that torture their bodies
insisting they not grow
but the balance will hold
this garden watches me grow old
behind these divisions
of life – the free and the not.
This greater being will go on
while I, in my prison, will rot.