by Sandra Lowen

Created on: November 18, 2009

Prisoners

On the street I'd've shot you dead!

Now you pass, and I turn my head.

I don't want you to see me here.

I'm not sure I'll survive this year.

When it's late, no one turns out lights,

I've lost count of the days and nights.

I could shower, but I don't dare.

Can't be sure if I'd be safe there.

The C.O.s say Just call us 'boss'.

Don't ask me what I'll do; I'm lost.

I look up at a square of sky.

I'm so sad, but I don't dare cry.

I stumble bound, toward the hut.

Sergeant signals, Keep your mouth shut!

We squat down close, choking on dust.

They talk about beheading us.

No idea what gives them that right.

But we won't die without a fight.

We call sweet images to mind,

The loves, the country left behind.

The Sergeant's palmed a shard of glass

And in the dark we both work fast.

We wriggle free. I grab a pole.

The Captain nods and rasps, Let's roll!

The pain grows worse and worse each day.

I cannot think; I cannot pray.

I cannot frown, I cannot smile.

I know I've gone my final mile.

Carbolic acid hospice smell!

It's surely the perfume of hell.

I'm in this fleshy prison cell.

I step outside where all is well.

The faces blur and fade away.

I cannot will myself to stay

I look back at what once was me

And spread my wings, finally free.

Learn more about this author, Sandra Lowen.
Click here to send this author comments or questions.