Criminal

A poet weeps- no paper. No pen.
A poet tries to find hope again, in
Cemented room, made Way Back When.

The poet-made-warrior, no tools in hand,
Obeying a burning inner demand,
Writes on the floor, in dirt and in sand.

Words of glory, of shimmering light...
Words that help others endure the fight...
Words of one blind to beautiful sight...

Hurting, I see him scrawl.
He's known such horrors.  He's had so many falls.
He writes, deaf to any man's call.

His cell, adjacent to my own,
Has nothing to comfort, no warmth or plant grown
For one blind and deaf to all good and bad sown.

Too far for me to read what he writes,
I find myself hating my hearing, my sight.
Though in this place is so little light.

The only light that comes to this place
Falls from above on one calm, still face.
He scribbles faster, on some great unseen race.

While I've earned this lot, he deserves to be free.
While my soul is blind, he's earned rights to see.
An angel is he.  A devil is me.

I've committed such crimes: my hands are red.
Broken tears fall for words that I've said.
Much of my own heart is black, hard, and dead.

His heart, much like the purest gold
Has been through fires that make white flame seem cold
His body is young.  His soul, ages old.

Deaf, blind poet still writes on the floor.
Pained, I cannot, his sorrows, ignore.
I reach through cell bars, on knees very sore.

"You can't hear," I whisper. "But I know you fear.
One who loves you is sitting right here.
Brother, your own family is near."

Criminal reaches out in vain.
Poet pauses.  Does he sense this near stain?
Does he, criminal brother, disdain?

He turns slowly.  His face, my face, face.
Then speaking words soft and fragile as lace,
Says, "Can't hear or see. But love I can taste."

"Our spirits are of the same shape and hue
I feel pain that you go through.
I name you brother.
Brother, I love you too."

Adam Scott Campbell