the art prison

they've turned the prison
into an art house.

women and children,
men
with canvasses and brushes
go in
to show their work.

to brush long strokes turning
white into
trees and
faces. cats and dogs.

it was a notorious place
for decades.
the worst of the worst
of crimes
were committed by its
inhabitants.

murder, rape. robbery.

but now there is no guard
in the watchtower,
no
barbed wired
on the fence. no cell locked.

no rifles pointed down
preventing escape.

daisies are painted where
blood once ran.

flowers bloom in the yard,
where shivs
were sharpened,
were deals went down.

pottery spins in the work house.
yarn,
and sketches.
there's singing too.

it's kumbaya in the big house.

not a single shriek is heard
anymore.