My Poetry. A Prisoner in her own Home.

Colourful prisms of light
Set free from blackened, cracked glass,
Forcing the darkness to illuminate,
Allowing the aroma of cut grass.

But she never leaves her home,
Imprisoned within four walls;
No one ever gets inside,
Feeling bound by chain and ball.

This was a woman who once held respect,
Heavily into charity by day;
A pillar of the community,
People listened to what she would say.

Many years passed in her life,
And tragedy struck many times:
Her family passed away, friends moved on,
Her son sent down for serious crimes.

Now her life was empty,
Her interest declined by day;
Nothing would get through to her,
At home, she was forced to stay.

Doctors tried in vain
To get her to leave her house;
A frail, aged woman,
As quiet as a mouse.

She felt she was misunderstood;
No one truly knew how she was.
Her illness was killing her at speed,
Her life was not merely in pause.

The fear to leave her house
Finally took its toll;
Her heart gave up the battle—
The final drum roll.

© William Sinclair Manson 2025