Faces, though each with a unique semblance and story of its own, seemed to blend and shift amongst one another along the city street, as would grains of sand in a sandstorm. As he marched along the perpetually crowded sidewalk of the familiar boulevard, his destination came slowly into view. A venue simply dubbed, The Hideaway, it was frequented by lovers of poetry and caffeine alike, and was one of the few places in the world where he could enjoy lone, unabated peace. None would approach him at such a place even though the venue was growing in popularity, as the owners were rather strict regarding their motto of the shop being a true “hideaway.” The establishment stood starkly out of place, its propinquity to the gray and black shrines to capitalism in the vicinity making it a sort of oasis in a desert of prosaic industry.
But still, dozens of pairs of eyes stalked him; hushed whispers abounded amongst those who caught a glimpse of the solitary figure.

“Is that –“

“Yeah, I think it is!”

“Why do you think he…?”

“No idea!”
Clad in his black designer suit, eyes of glacial aqua drifting over the large, dimly lit room before him, he paid the stares and whispers no mind. It was nothing to which he hadn’t grown accustomed. He took his usual seat as his mind floated absently throughout the timeline of the day, glazed eyes staring at the stage at the center of the establishment. What snapped him out of his stupor, however, was the figure upon the stage; few came here to speak to others, let alone read their poetry center-stage. Far more often, the introverted clientele of the establishment would ask for their work to be hung upon the wall, and upon the wall it would go. But, again, the occurrence did not warrant his full attention. He had more important things to think about.
That is, until words began to spill forth from the figure in question.

“I sit behind bars,
Gazing around me,
And come to realize
It’s you who’s found me.
Committer of no crime,
Yet prisoner all the same,
You must know that we two
Go by the same name:
The Prisoner.
They hold us, bars stronger than steel,
And in our search for escape,
With the Devil we make deals.
To leave this place
Long and far behind.
And leave our last mark
For all those young minds
That come after our own sentence
Is gone and done
It will only be then,
That we can say that we’ve won.
But you know not your sentence
As I’ve come to know
You lie in ignorance
Awaiting the finishing blow.
So revel in your “freedom.”
Feel safe and secure
As the sands of time shift
And scatter to obscure
Your name. Your life.
All you ever were
No matter how hard you struggle,
It’ll all be left a blur
So as you laugh your empty laugh,
And drink your bland ale,
Remember, you too,
Are a Prisoner of the Pale.”


The words left him mesmerized, the rhythm of the poem hypnotizing in combination with its reader’s deep, silken voice. Something within him felt displaced by the words he’d heard, as though an inner harmony that had existed prior had been disturbed.
He had to speak with the writer. He had to. And yet, when his eyes darted about frantically in search of whatever man had spoken those words aloud, they found nothing. The stage was empty, and the door to The Hideaway had begun to swing shut. The Listener stood, darting to the door and out into the city as he looked about with greater and greater fervor. But again, his eyes failed him. The Reader had become yet another grain of sand in the storm.
That night, The Listener met with not a single ounce of sleep. The poem haunted him, its verses engraving themselves in the core of his being, forever on loop.
He knew not whether to be frustrated or angry or saddened by the words that floated around the inside of his mind, but they upset him all the same. He was left adrift; he felt a disconnection so profound that the world seemed to be little more than a distant plain, viewed through the windows at the front of his skull.

Eventually, exhaustion took him, dragging him down into the dreamless oblivion of sleep. And yet the words still echoed in his head, taunting him.

Remember, you too, are a Prisoner of the Pale.