Prisoner 56

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The steady and constant beat of the neighbor drumming
his wooden spoon against the cold iron bars.
Fifteen years, (Is it?), of this cramped, tightly spaced cell, but what for?
I cannot even recall the reasoning of my existence in this desolate location.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

He never sleeps. Not one night, always tapping, always tapping.
Why? Does anybody remember who I am, where I am, who?
Who am I, better yet, who was I?
For now I know only that I am called by Prisoner 56...

The walls are stone, sometimes water leaks from the ceiling and
slowly dribbles down the wall, if you are lucky you can catch this
treasure and feed your drying tounge. There are no windows,
no sense of life... This is a prison of all prisons.

No one escapes, no one tries. Your bars are always shut,
and none of them are loose. Food made for stray dogs
hunting in trashcans is that we have to feast on once a day (Maybe?).

The longer I am here the less I remember of the world.
My pale skin screams for the long lost sun.
Been years since I last spoke, I wonder if the
only thing still functioning is my mind (For how long?).

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The floor is always cold, but there is no where else to
sleep (Sleep?). It seems everytime I lay down in this
corner I find myself hunting the depths of my mind for
memories. But now I only remember that which
surrounds me. The tapper. The corner. The prison.