Contributor: Paul Tristram

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Into my prison cell he stole
with his greedy little mind.
He pulled apart my bed pack
to see what he could find.
Searched every nook and cranny
until he found my radio.
Then with a sickly smile
he crept back out the door.
Last time it was my tobacco
before that my bar of soap.
But tomorrow I am going sick,
I’ll be waiting with a rope.


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Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight, this too may pass, yet. You can read his poems and stories here! http://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/