Prison

In a world where time is folded like thin parchment, there was a patterned prison, like a large spider web, entangled in a network of its own chained walls. In this place, where the gray stone walls seemed like mighty guardians of forgotten dreams, each prisoner was like a prisoner in his own soul. Behind the bars, the past wandered like a shadow, gently embracing each cell with its invisible touch. Their faces were paintings on which stories were imprinted, filled with notes of lost opportunities. The prison, like a time vortex, dragged its victims into captivity, severing the threads of life, leaving only emptiness in their hearts. In captivity, they became poets of their own destinies, every word was a sadness, and every verse was a prisoner inside the walls that became their unknown world. The prisoners, like trapped butterflies, beat against the glass of their restraints, their wings touched by the malice of fate, but despite all attempts, they remained inside their gloomy house. In prison, the music of sadness sounded, where every chord was an echo of lost freedom. There was silence behind the bars, which spoke of unspoken secrets and lost dreams. Their hearts beat in unison, like a monotonous metronome, counting each day they lived as a new act in the tragedy of their own destinies. The dark corridors of the prison are like pages in a book written by suffering and loss. In this maze of iron and concrete they wandered, but each turn was only a new pattern in the web of their imprisonment. And, although the light of the sun could never penetrate their imprisoned souls, they still dreamed of the touch of the wind, of the sound of freedom that sounded so far away in their memory.