House Made Of Stone Poem by Eric Cockrell

the cell door slams shut!
staring through the barred window,
he can make out a lone crow
flying just over the treetops....

can feel the sunlight turning
the wheel, as seasons change.
can hear the big trucks
out on the interstate...

lying back on his bunk,
he closes his eyes....
can feel his spirit leaving
his beaten body behind....

turning back time, and years,
and most of all, choices....
back before the cars, the whores,
the dope, the money, and the guns....

he can see his mother
washing clothes in the sink.
can taste the beans, the cornbread,
can hear her reading her Bible....

can see the hope drenched walls
that poverty closed them in with....
and the keys... the books, the faith,
the code of living and giving....

choices... shadows and fire,
roaches on the floor....
dignity or power; and those eyes
that followed every move he made...

lone crow flying into the distance,
smaller and smaller, almost gone.
the part of him so real he'd forgotten,
lost to the hammer and chains....

and a house made of stone!