They say age is just a number. You are as young as you feel. And growing older means your wiser. At least that’s supposed to be the deal. But the things that I am wise about, are mistakes I can’t repeat. And as my number grows larger, I’m further from petite.
Orange clad figures standing beneath a yellow sun. The days of stripes, in the past, gone, like their freedom. The prison of walls and wire, pales in comparison to the confines in their minds. Escape, no longer means fleeing across man made boundaries. Simple events, lighten loads of mental burdens. There is no race, or clan, or gang, that segregates them this night. For it is lederhosen, and polkas! German Fest and sauerkraut night has returned to the penitentiary.
(I would would like to take a moment and apologize for this poem. I really need and editor. In writing and in life.)