Tired, soulless, vacant eyes,
Anonymous, below dark skies.
Stare silently, through grimy glass
As minutes, hours, and days, just pass.
Tattered armchairs, soaked in pain,
Shelter whispered prayers, in vain.
Shuffling steps in ghastly halls,
Are muffled by the bloodstained walls.
There is no sign, or breath, of hope,
for these poor souls, who fail to cope.
Just whisky days, and wine fuelled nights,
To dull the glare of demon lights.
Throughout this sad and soulful place,
There is no sign of God's good grace.
As if the inmates realise,
This is the road to their demise.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
Owain Glyn
