It isn’t all too bad,

I may still feel between your bars.

There’s that freedom,

so close, yet so far.

 

I slip my arm often through,

to a perspective only my arm will ever see.

My perspective’s striped,

all it’ll ever be.

 

My fingers have touched freedom,

my mind has only known steel.

My bones obey my barriers,

and my heart can’t even feel.

 

I breathe the cold-cuts of oxygen,

that roll in through these gates.

Though slices of air are better than none,

I tend to somehow suffocate.

 

There is so much more out there than in here,

though my horizon arrives quite soon.

I have one wish that I already know is bullshit,

I know I’ll never see the moon.