The bars of habitual thought shackle
an unknown realm of possibility,
locks of regressive feeling manacle
a possible unknown ability.

Buried hurt imprisons mindís expansion
in a blocked cell of scoffing denial.
Sweet life confined by an inner guardsman
bellowing threats of bitter reprisal.

Lockstep, I exercise in restrictive
numbered days of perpetual motion,
as jasmine light of being is captive
in rank disinfected institution.

If incognizant of above essence,
one is condemned to life and death sentence.