Words Etched on Soap

There's a legend
About the poems
The jailed poet
Found in the frost

Of her prison's
Small blue window,
White fairy world
Of thieves in woods.

I'm sorry, son,

But you can't write
Anywhere near
Finely enough

To be, yourself,
One of the brave
Thieves of the woods
Taunting tyrants,

Not well enough
To make up for
This foolishness
You make of life.

You're a creature
Infinitely
Finite. You make
Such dumb mistakes.

This is one such

You'll forget. Wash
Your hands once. Right,
Wrong, words have gone.