The Box II

I sit in the box of four yellow walls, urine in the air, convict’s screams down the hall.

The place of the lonely, the place of the lost, my soul often tossed.

But in the end as the days crawl by, and the mold on the light grows so, so high, I slip into madness, comforting madness.

The track on the wall, with pencil I write, ever so slowly the car goes around the track.

However, if one waits the appropriate amount of time, all at once the car zooms a week around the track of time.

I laugh and clap my hands, at the brink of sanity.

In my prayers for the car to move, I miss the sun on my face.