IN THE
DUNGEON
Here, where I am standing alone, I am chained to
the wall. I seek no solace; all this is as disgusting
as can be. Yet, I stay - for there is no other
way.
My own shoes were long ago taken away; I stand
in fetid water all day, cold and lifeless, both me
and it. I will soon be dead, there are no two ways
about that; my head reeks, my lungs pound from
congestion, the slimy cold has entered my system,
and I shudder. Was I sentenced to this, or just to
Death,
and what's the difference anyway? Five years in chains,
it's all the same. I have a friend or two in the rats
which
scurry around. I'm fed by wart-hog-faced jailers with
always
a leer and a grimace. I ask for a preacher, they send me
a rabid dog, snapping at me and howling. What's the use?
The two men I killed, at least they were dead in ten
minutes
and with the justice of a cause. This, this is all useless
dying,
a mute vessel going to Hell, a sign in the dark that nobody
reads.
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