“Like a palace”, they’ve called it with
Sun shining upon it. On the
Outside it glows. On the inside
It glooms. Cell blocks instead of rooms;
Residential luxury prison.
A sturdy roof, some windows
Here, there some doors and staircases
Leading each to their own exile.
Bedroom sanctuaries keep them
Sane – asylum in their own worlds
Yet their walls become craftsman’s glue
Holding each steady, reeling them
In from rougher waters outside.
Each with their own stories to scream,
The farther away from home they
Stray the wider a four cornered
Web they weave and find this home the
Center of it: the home, where they
Sleep like fish in their own caves. The
Home, where without the walls of their
Bedrooms binding them together
They would be nothing with no one.