There's a prison devoid of life,
Its walls tall and foreboding.
There's a small cell to end the hall,
Its prisoner decoding.
There's sound scribbled across the bricks,
Its letters scattered and torn.
There's a rough hand tracing the lines,
Its owner feeling forlorn.
There's an eye scanning every scratch,
Its pupil round and aware.
There's shackle clanging at all times,
Its chain smooth with endless wear.
There's one rusty chair for sitting,
Its back broken and bent.
There's one stiff blanket for sleeping,
Its cloth filthy and spent.
There's vine growing through the thick bars,
Its leaves green, healthy, and whole.
There's a click of heals upon the stone,
Its maker is black as coal.
There's a grin plastered to his face,
Its teeth are white and gleaming.
There's a cloak upon his shoulders,
Its color red and streaming.
There's a friendship between the two,
Its endurance has proved strong.
There's rescuing planned for tonight,
Its time is not very long.
There's a squeek of un-oiled iron,
Its cause is easily guessed.
There's a clasp of hands in the hall,
Its significance well pressed.
There're quick movements toward the door,
Its observer dead and gone.
There're horses dashing to the woods,
Its trees pink with sunless dawn.
There's singing to hear from the hills,
Its writer happy at last.
There's a reason for this poem,
Its character had a past.
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