View of Being Locked In

Greg Prince
3 min readFeb 19, 2019


Seeing from utter lowliness to hope again

Sitting in my own contempt,
singing what it is he’s spent,
laughing through smiles without grace:
movement flowing false and bent.

Cheshire cats in trees circling the tiers
taking only a nickel to be rowed across the river.
Sly, practiced, and stale.
Thick muscles of paper mache to deliver;
bring the goods, place them at my feet.

Mountainous digressions underneath all expression,
transient wishes drum away expectations.
This day in every plight, solid, stagnant, the tide.

Borne anew moment rises and is suspect
wasting the dawn bores coming eve.
Bring alms for the risen clay-is your reprieve.
Inside burns glowing lights, hungry embers;
original fires continue to seek and not deceive.

Taste of malignant children sour a heart.
Blessing from whom reach through fingers alarmed.
Kisses and hugs-ransom of kings gone astray.
Seedlings for hope and desire must be farmed.



Greg Prince

Bringing real feelings along with messages of inspiration and imagination to life. Awakening is the symptom of my infectious condition. Poetry is my condition.