The 93

Same shackles, children and elders
Black skins bound, white walls surround
For survival sake they find new brothers
But the term is too short,
end seemingly too certain
to call the iron bars "home"

Scarce love leaves them searching
as freedom’s gate open
Many boundaries are broken, breaking
Some slowly, predictably, stretching
The ambiance hatches true
maybe new characters;
Comics and Lovers
The ‘Big’ boys,
Churchmen and others
arrive.
Loneliness births colour.

Same uniform is worn by all;
stress on joy
graced with a small blue tower
Every man bearing his own surname
Running, waiting
Uncertain, of the future’s verdict.