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Weekly dialogues with faces barred,
mothers,
fathers,
living amidst vertical shadows
cast by steel bars imprisoning
more than just flesh,
confining also hearts, minds, souls and dreams.
And the children go on crying!
What words hold the key to freedom,
annihilating the cycle
of recurring behavior
chasing repeated incarceration,
and winning,
home having been redefined
as a community cage
populated by strangers,
while babies go without,
suffering emotional lacerations
of isolation
from "mommy" and "daddy."
And the children go on crying!
Two worlds now both shaped by bars,
locked behind steel doors,
spirits shackled,
the trappings of a penal island,
yet for both parent and child,
making relationships,
however close in physical proximity,
neighboring residence,
separated by lightyears.
And the children go on crying!
Freedom I have learned must come from within.
My words are but morsels,
crumbs for tasting only,
tiny specs designed to remind of children
and childhood
and risk of offspring losing
images of "dad" and "mom."
But I have also found that my crumbs
have often left trails,
miniature pathways to memories
of lives once lived free,
scraps floating away from penal island
on a vast sea of hope and possibilities,
ultimately docking
at the hearts of children longing,
drying tears.
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