A Prisoner

A windowless room
and we are sentenced there.
We see the room
is actually a sentence,

but the sentence may be
commuted to another sentence.
It always is. Then sentences
form a paragraph. Which collapses.

How do we see the windowless
room but through the windows
of the soul. They are clear
and blind, clearly blind.

How could we see anything
were they not an emptiness,
a transparency forwarding
opacity to a jelly?

Seeing only occurs as part
of the sentence, which began
with birth, which precedes it.
There is nothing outside

this sentence and its coloring
your thought about your prison cell.
The great success of being human!
Language burns images alive.