This Cold Unholy Basement

Tell us how thrilling it must be having the world stamped upon

one's back? Each letter carrying the uniqueness and weight of

continents. The space in between filled with every villainous act

known to man; while the over-lords of malice are riotous in

self-satisfaction.

Pale, impaled upon the brutal circumstances of our estates, we

seldom stand, still, our bodies are bowed in anticipation of the

great release, into the embrace of the mystic void, where relief

is no longer colored by mortal precepts.

Our eyes are open from within. We see the multitudes cower, then

rage in fear and ignorance as we walk towards the shining road

of creation, displaying badges of tribulation, the results of a

people�s mood; not, a movement of the people.

Here we are, bound in states of misery and Hope, induced as

grains of bleeding sand, their vibrancy the shape of renewed

consciousness, limitless in scope and nobility.

Wallowing here, our bodies and souls twisted like a knotty walking

stick, challenging this cold Unholy basement as a besieged flock,

knowing we have reaped the world's bitter harvest, its lack of

decorum, displayed-forever-more?-in the wearing of uniforms

that blot-out the soul�s individuality.

Ceremoniously-we scrape the jaw, leg, arm with dull blades:

enthralled, by the chorus of those who love unconditionally (even

the dark side of man) as they lament the quickening of spirits

before flight.

And on the morrow our company shall be acceptable, aware, that

the mystic white has persuaded our suffrage through unopened

doors, where our release is born, again, deep within the blushing

breasts of immortality's unquenchable thirst. And this ignoble of

place shall pour-out its occupants to stroll winter's leaf-strewn

passage to celestial warmth.

Darrell B. Grayson 12.03
Alabama Death Row