Holes in the Iron

The metal is harsh and rusted.
Scarred with pits, it still stands strong,
a bulwark, a prison
between you and the light,
an ugly reminder
of the dungeons you have lived in far too long.

But it’s confidence is it’s undoing,
so sure of your subjection,
it allowed a glimpse, the merest peek of sunlight,
that most dangerous of things,
hope,

unaware, or unwilling to believe such a small flicker
could burn its way through cold steel,
that desire for light, for color, for the ability to rise to the sky
could have such implacable power.

About this poem. 

There are a lot of different kinds of oppression. Some from without. Some from within. All of them wrong.

Tom