The Fiefdom


I approach it every day. It is just there, unwanted by the sentenced men. There used to be a net, though long gone. Now, a pit. A place of old sand, sand never replenished by tide nor man…. To run around it for miles and miles, you know the ‘try’ of body and mind…. And, I do…. The hot sun does not join until mid-morn. No, when I meet sand it is morn’s gray. The blend of dismal sky ugly sand are but one. Yet, tis the rainy season. The pit is as if some far-off sea’s shoreline…. And, I begin…. round and round…. round and round; every fifteen minutes; reverse, go clockwise then counter-clockwise. Some know of this, me, running the pit, others not. Others know not of butterflies…. I do…. Know that butterflies are lovely to look at, especially when not fluttering about…. Running today, strong. There was a difference of butterflies: yellow, pink, and white, orange and brown and the blue-green, very pretty, very pretty…. And all were there, not of fluttering…. Just, drinking blood. A purplish, blood patch of a blood canvas upon sand. Also, a bloody rock, silent, staring….Ooh, telling all. You see prison yards are “jungle”. Very early today man-beast heavy-handed another within the 4th world [prison]….. Running…. I never knew pretty butterflies drank blood. Drank and would not even fly off as my bare feet passed…. Round and round I checked…. Absorbing the deep colors so…. And, for me, another day I cannot even call a-day. Nay, for it is long’s madness and nothing more.

By:George Martorano
9/10 /2015