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 is locked.

The hidden bars and drably painted old walls
With those rusty Shackles
Lending a pull for them to only fall.

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

The people outside show some false pity
Whilst they talk sarcastically, walking down the gitty.

And now they own a remarkable silence
Having seen the demise of the inner violence.

For nobody wants to come inside
Set them free from the perils of their dark nights.

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