It's sort of a prison, a beautiful prison, Napoleon's
Elba, this home of mine. I sometimes forget to
Acknowledge its beauty: the spacious rooms,
The finely-made moldings, the paintings,
The books, the dark hardwood floors,
And, of course, the view of the valley
Below, which, shallow as it is, extends
To infinity. Visitors tell me how lucky
I am, and I know that they're right.
Nonetheless, I'm imprisoned, surrounded
By bigots and foot-draggers, brutes, who
Are hostile to any suggestion of change.
Mindless, bamboozled, uncultured,
Addicted to trash entertainment and unhealthy
Foods, they're an ocean of sewage surrounding
My home, my Elba. It's beautiful. Still,
If I could, I would quietly scurry away.

Poetry by Lawrence Beck The PoetBay support member heart!
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Written on 2022-01-13 at 00:44

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D G Moody The PoetBay support member heart!
But is it a prison, I wonder - just as Elba was. Um....not sure here, could be you're pointing the finger gun back at the narrator; as in, when we point the finger four more are pointing back. Or am I reading more into this than intended Lawrence?

Griffonner The PoetBay support member heart!
Another brilliant write by you, Lawrence. My own Elba is very, very similar - at least it inspires the same thoughts but for slightly different reasons: At the moment it would be because there were over 340,000 new infections yesterday, and in my Elba that says such a lot about the people I am surrounded by!