The Prisoner

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The Prisoner1



What had I done? I never did find out.


There I was, thrown in this cell and never

let out. They wipe my mind every night,

so I can't remember who I am and the

governor ignores my pleas, like I don't

exist.


How many years have I been here? Where

did I come from? Nobody seems to know

or care: Here I am and here I seem to stay.

In the early days I managed to get out but

they hunted me down and dragged me

screaming back here.


Bloody people! Call this a care home!
A row of red rocking chairs on the porch of the Red Rocker Inn by Carol M Highsmith
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1Dedicated to Aunty Bunty.

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