There's always been a mystery
in those gleamy eyes
tired with those everyday views
wanting to escape right.

The prison isn't always
the centre of the talk
it could be the home or the mind
where someone's locked.

The drably painted old walls
and those rusty Shackles
lending a pull for them to fall.

They bleed, thy hands and feet
and the heart screams for peace to meet.

Now, they own a remarkable silence
having seen the demise of the inner violence.

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