the iron gates close on your face,
by the hour, takes no explanation.
not even beads of sweat,
or the four five bags slung on your arm.
the stairs outside can become your bed,
until the dawn of the morning,
or the dews flick your eyes open.
condemns you for the illegal activities,
you had been doing out so late,
to twenty-five year olds,
even if it’s us youngsters,
won’t believe if we said we’re virgins!
friendship, it doesn’t accept.
just coolers blaring alarms everywhere,
the gate stands like a tombstone,
made of cold hard steel.
not like the sacred metal,
real iron is supposed to be.
ohoh, hadn’t I been talking about the gate?
mistake, the gate is made of iron,
that could be soldered away.
the coldness is in the mind,
who keeps the steel key,
who keeps it.
illiterate, and shut.
I have an answer now.
Next time, I’ll just sneak into the matron’s
Icy prison she mistook for a lavish manor.
Before the witch is back, I’ll copy her weapon,
Her upper hand during our battles,
And leave quietly.
Tonight the lock will be free,
To let whoever deserves to get past it.
And a few of their lovers as well.