Seasons Are the Reasons
By James Terry II
The seasons have become the reasons, the steel in my constitution. Summer’s the crest of the sparrows tattooed across my chest; Winter’s the frost that emboldens my heart, from the very start; Spring from out this cell, as I YELL as in a well; and Fall y’all, is my refusal once you’ve answered this call.
For this ink pens my life blood. Entrapped within this fortress of solitude, I wish that you may receive my long – lost forlorn – led words of wisdom. The stark white paint. Rank, dank and that stink! Concrete, cement and metal doors have become chores. Inmates screaming – correctional officers day dreaming – while third shift, earning pay for sleeping.
This prison system globally is a pigsty. Administration’s a goat’s head and Lucifer’s appeased. Satanic worshipping, Ouija Board playing and Séance attending officials have fooled no one. Gathering us valuable humans, treating us as if disposable – like a trash heap – We get lit up and turned out!!!Violence begets violence, but our spiritual war rages on against these Devils that try oppressing us. I feel the isolation of decades of loneliness, abandonment and tearstained pillows that wrenches at my very soul. Crying out, ” Dear Momma! ” Pillars of salt are at stake here. Never turn back to witness the abhorrent destruction of a cathedral of humans scattered like marble statutes in the Potter’s field of graves; ” But Carry on My Wayward Friend “, has long been the battle cry of those who came before me, blazing the trail of the prisoner.
Incarcerated because of the judiciary’s insensitive and illogical attempts to rationalize the false narrative of compromise. How many have pled guilty to avoid cruel and unusually harsh lengthy sentences? Contemplating scenario after sophisticated scenario, prosecutorial misconduct is par for the course, legislative statutory traps to oppress neighborhoods of color and judicial hijinks to hoodwink the very people the police claim to serve and protect.
These gray hairs don’t alarm me, nor does my dark skin offend me. It’s with Black Pride, that I rise in the mornings, break my fast, wash my face, brush my teeth, say my prayers, stomp my feet, plan my attack, write you this prose, wait for your response, nourish my body, lift my weights, flex my brain and remain the same.
A forever changing entity, clothed in flesh.
Seasons of change are upon us .
Reach out, support incarcerated authors and realize that, ” Second chances don’t discriminate”.
How many Minutes Before Six?
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