Doubt Builds a Prison


Time fades

in long lines on stone

through saline excrement excreted

from passive pores of the porous walls

of the cell I created.

Doubt and fear have built for me,

constructing high upon inept aptitude

with coarse mason-work and fetid fungus

of oozing puss, the putrid ache

of nothingness captured serenely, sublimely

by the wet walls of grey-washed servitude

to learned failure, of self-loathing,

of blunder and dreams asunder

under the thunder of guns calling

from hills afar, remote,

beyond my reach and my ken while I rot

in that den of my own insipid erection

where no-one sees, no-one knows,

because no-one comes.

Because no-one cares.

Because in the corner of my existence

stands the festering slop bucket I piss in

daily, hourly, pouring out my heart

in yellow streams of pointless, un-aimed

vitriol of hatred directed at my battered soul.


Life fades

to pale blue, to a vacant hue

of wistful waste,

of wanton lust unsated through

the rust bucket iron-clad door

of a whore who pins me to a hard-board

mattress lying flaccid on grating springs

where even the cockroaches impale themselves

ending their pointless lives.

Through the blackened bars

shuttering my pitiful window,

a tired sun, waning

after a billion, trillion years of brilliant light

illuminating my golden shining path,

blinding my idiot blood-shot eyes, feeds me

my last supper of liquid luminescence

over a straw-strewn floor.

The constant spring of my existence fills my lungs

with buttercup air

and the distant chirp of lovers

I might have felt in naked slumber

humbles me, crumbles me

with their sweet wet harmony.

The key to my locked heart is lost in the vast ocean

I was too scared even to dip a severed toe in as its waves

lapped my sheltered shins with blood-red darkness.


Hope fades

but only styles remains.

Every end

once had a beginning,

and in the middle, we came together.

We came, we saw, and I doubted.

I doubted beyond all doubt

and lived the fear of all fears

in my shrunken marble heart, unable to tell

friend from foe since my dearest beloveds

taught me one bastard lesson:

That they both wear the same facile mask.

Yet I have things too: tools and spades and weapons

and knives coarse in their design and

spineless by nature but study through experience

and not lacking in fortitude built on floundering hope

for here against my wall stands my desk

as I sit upon my seat

with pencil in hand

and writing paper at the ready,

and my lead draws lines of a new kind of hope.



Malek Montag

Rochester, 2017


Picture Credit:


About malekmontag

I am a writer and a wage-slave, and proud father of George Giraffe. I live in the UK, but I exist everywhere. My first stories were published this year (2016) in Short Stories and Tall Tales (Atla Publishing). Follow me on Twitter @Malek_Montag15. My Work is also available on
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