My eyelids sag
heavy as the chains at my feet.
Exhaustion becomes
a cough rusted in my throat,
a dull pain cinching my gut.
For the last two weeks,
as soon as I drift into dream,
the guards holler
and bang their swords
to shake me from slumber.
Even if I scream and protest,
they persist in their torment.
Even more miserable—
beyond sleeping
there is nothing to do
in this cell.
I have counted the bricks,
memorized the number
of links in my chain,
recited every prayer I know.
To relieve the tedium
I even resorted to singing
with my voice of a horse.
The guards swiftly threatened
to cut out my tongue.
I have never relished idleness.
On the farm, work never ceased.
And battle is preparation
followed by action.
I almost look forward
to the clerics visiting my cell.
I prefer questioning to silence.
At least I have something
to do.