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“[Imprisoned Poem] Somewhere deep inside me There lies an imprisoned poem A poem that is Buried Chained And holding its breath Ages ago… A poem about futility The fragility of words About alarms, if sounded, They’d be either destined to silence Or get written on the walls of indifference… There is an ancient poem Imprisoned in my soul Waiting to be released impatiently, In due time… Like a house cat this imprisoned poem keeps eagerly watching Every move outside the window, Without any participation… And like a house cat, Whenever this imprisoned poem Gets exhausted by the triviality of reality, It sleeps for long hours Only to wake up and find The status quo unchanged And the strings moving the puppets uncut… It then looks out the window in sorrow And goes back to sleep once again To dream of a less ugly world… My imprisoned poem has vowed not to release itself From the deepest points in my soul Until everyone else is awake For its release to be meaningful… (November 17, 2014)” — Louis Yako