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Photo by Robert Eklund on Unsplash

I see the wings of birds slice the air
they glide so gracefully, knowing no end.
Free to go from place to place
to see a new country, a new body of water,
to see a new face.
If I had wings, I would fly until I tired:
away and away like a bullet that’s been fired.
Instead, I sit, encased by concrete and steel,
Knowing these thoughts can only be dreams,
never real.

Disclaimer: The views in this article are those of the author. Prison Journalism Project has verified the writer’s identity and basic facts such as the names of institutions mentioned.

Robert M. is a Mexican-Irish writer incarcerated in California.