Sitting cross-ankle on my bunk –– back to the cinder block wall.
Tears are in conflict, whether to come out, or hold place.
A peculiar war unfolds in corner #4 of my cell.
One high ranking elder croaking words of defense through pain.
Ranked right below, 25 years her junior, her peer drops B-bombs.
The war, intense, sprawling back decades, bringing up old shit.
Arguing from hate, to blind loyalty, to protection –– then love.
Words crossing the globe’s topography in one small shoebox.
From venomous name calling, to hugs, tears, sobs, “I love yous.”
Statue still –– I’m sure I went through a fraction of their emotions.
Socialized PTSD: stress from anticipating a physical fade.
The war revealed what it was really about –– 53 years in corner 4.
One Life Without the Possibility of Parole, against another.
In the mist of the venom –– 5 life sentences contrasted.
Between 2 draconian LWOPS, 5 decades fell from the calendar.
The lesser cried “they sent me back! I’m never going home!”
Her elder protested, “You served this country, don’t think like this.”
Rigidly soft sobs ensued; the elder continued: “you pray to God.”
Her opponent, no rebuttal or retort. More sobs, hugs, I love yous.
All witnesses changed that day, each grabbed at the tapestry;
Every affected onlooker knitted on, and held it all together.