The Prisoner

In his cell the prisoner thought,
Why O why had he been caught.
Remembering from the time he was a bairn,
As innocent as a child he was then.
Back then his heart was as good as gold,
Now with age it was like cold mould.
Guns and knives were now his toys,
Killing and stealing were his joys.
Now the sentence he must face,
For that was the law of the human race.

Responses

2 comments so far.

1. Stephon Shrawder says:

   your very good as well my friend

2. Leah Pilger says:

   nice poem!