The Green Mile

The Green Mile

In a dim corridor of iron and bruised floorboards,
the pale light of dawn slinks westward, refusing to shine.
There, a green‑tinted line of emotion and doubt
surfaces like a slow‑blooming nettle in a black‑hued field.

Paul Edgecomb’s hands, worn by years of lullabies
for those who dwell in the prison’s unfathomed nights,
squeeze the forearm of a man whose name is whispered—
John Coffey, a saint clothed in a weary, bruised body.

The men in the Grey, their sceptres of hope torn,
proclaim mercy in a world that knows only punishment.
“Mind your piece of work,” the warden states, a blade of cold
steel—yet his gaze softens when the boy opens his quiet, ancient mouth,

and the ache in his throat becomes a murmuring river
that, with each ostentatious drip, reminds the block
that God, too, is fond of the quiet and the broken.

The green becomes an envy of life—
a paradoxical veil shielding the guilt of the innocent,
while a hot‑iron verdict simmer in the gaze of the judge,
unaware that the day is marked by the rise of a humble child.

On that overcast morning, the piano of the sound of breath,
a lesson for the soul of the world –
in the beating heart of the cell which stands tall in the thick of night,
silence screams: “Forgive me,” reciting the colourful creed of the living,
and the green strides on, ever true.