There’s an orange glow
of light on the ceiling
coming from the lower east side of Syracuse
below me.
How fitting.
It streaks across my black walls and plaster
and pollutes the winter fog outside.
How fitting.
And as if upon a castle
that’s more fit for orange jumpsuits
I give this place less credit than it deserves.
The city is not a prison.
Its these walls that hold my heart hostage.
How fitting, that this box aglow with orange burns.
Poetry | Journal 
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