His crime broke laws thousands of years old. Thrown into a cell of metal and stone, he was left to contemplate his sins. The only sounds, the wailing of his fellow prisoners and the soft tumble of prayers falling from his own lips.
In other cells, other captives scratched marks on their walls with rusty, iron shackles, hopelessly tracking days without sunshine. He didn’t bother. He knew he would leave in a crude box, there was no use counting toward the inevitable. It would come regardless of when.
If he would deny his lord, he would garner release. He refused.
Thin spiral notebook 
As dark and haunting as I imagine prison to be. And leaving in a “crude box”. Vivid imagery.
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Being imprisoned would be horrible. I suppose if one thought they were honoring a just cause, it might make it more bearable.
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And the question, of course is if others will notice. And if they don’t, is he a martyr or a long-suffering penitent? And if they DO, is he a martyr or a saint?
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brutal
This is how I imagine any prison, real, or imagined, is for someone who does something so horrible.
I love that last line.
Thanks for picking this week’s song, partner.
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