Where sorrows rule and darkness dwells                                              in gloomy cells                                              it's hard to see                                              what sets us free.     A word, a smile, a proffered hand                             can countermand                             the locks, the walls,                             when freedom calls.     A trifle breaks these prison chains                           when hope remains.                           Through blackened bars                           I glimpse the stars.     Recognized Author Notes I note that the contest conditions free us from the onerous task of meter and traditional rhyme scheme for this form. For me, the Minute Poem demands the regular tick-tock of iambic and the usual aabb rhyme. I firmly believe that this is why this sixty-syllable form is called the Minute Poem. Just saying.

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