Illustration: Greg Richter Photography
I am held in this cell I cannot escape.
It’s been so long I cannot even conceive when I began.
Light comes in – and sound.
But it is no use to me.
The walls have become so calloused nothing touches them.
I waste away on the cold, hard cell floor.
The cold, hard self lore.
Sold my soul for a façade.
Change on the outside, chains on the inside.
A piece falls.
It splits the cell and gives me life.
Salt and brightness shine from me.
I am Onesimus.
A bloody hand pushes through the rubble to pull me free.
Nourishes me with bread and wine.
He pays my debt.
Keys to a mansion – to a man’s son.