Classic Poem

No one knows.
There is no telling
what they might do
if they leave prison.
Unknowable types.

From their long imprisonment
their white frames are mere skin and bones.
Even the expressions are frozen on these blockheads
always caught in the fingertips of others,
partners in crime rushing headlong.

When confined to darkness
anyone would rather be bold.
Since all of them harbor hot feelings of enmity,
whenever you hit them, at once
these under surveillance resort to self-immolation.

(Is it the most ardent wish
of those seeking attention
to show brute courage at the end?
Or is it an unintended death?)

For now they hold their breath
lying in their dark coffin, yet
they are waiting for that instant
when they can make a grand debut,
the opportune moment to burst forth.