Prison bars.
A child played a game.
Taking an old lattice from the garden,
she placed it in front of her open door,
and held it in place with her hands.
She gripped and shook the bars
and pleaded for a pardon,
pretending she was a prisoner.

Prison bars.
In the name of freedom,
a dissenter defied a tyrant.
He hid in a ship
bound for the United States,
as he fled for his life.
Beside the Golden Door
he was branded an illegal immigrant.
Despair was rife in his soul,
for now he was a prisoner.

Prison bars.
And what of my prison bars?
They are not made of steel
like those that shattered a hero's heart.
Held in place by me,
mine are like the child's it seems.
The bars are forged
of fear, routine and security,
yet are strong enough to hold me
captive from my dreams.
Please say a prayer for this
most pitiful of prisoners!

Mary Naylor

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/prison-bars/