The paint on these window bars is forming into a crust...

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The paint on these window bars is forming into a crust.
The rust beneath is the harbinger of death,
for it tells me the budget is down for a few more years,
until the new prisoners have replaced me.
I have been checking the decay of paint and polish infinitely,
ever since I was a child,
catching a paint-formed Karl Marx face on the walls of my grandmother's guest room,
not knowing I was the seed of a stingy upper middle class.
But, dear friend, I write to you as
a consoler of your tragedy;
a death in the family is never easy.
Confined within these rotting walls,
I ask not for a mirror to shave my chin.
I see my reflection everyday in the morning and at night,
in the faces of my jailers and inmates.
If you are a man of religion, I shall not recount a prophet's progress.
If you are a man of pleasures, I shall not tell you that life goes on.
If you profess other grey zones in between, I shall still remain silent.
From one prisoner to another,
I say we are still worlds apart.