Oh how oblivious was sweet young she.
How wonderful it seemed in her eyes.
To be among the best on the country.
To mingle with the highest of the high.
She was placed in prisons clothes.
Designed for the image of greatness but in reality, was suffering.
On the first day, the thick smoke, sickened her.
The heat of the polluted air.
The shabby, sinking wooden floors,
Creaked like an old lady struggling to walk.
Dingy green paint of a building, dying with age.
She was a mouse placed in a cage, with fences and barbed wire.
From slavery to prison,
What could be worse ?
Just another shovel of dirt,
On the burning fire.
Listen. You can hear pitched voices.
They whisper in the corners.
They squeal senselessly at insignificance.
Listen.. Can you hear her ?
YOU ARE READING
When The Soul Is Silent
PoetryWhat do you do... When you have so much to say.. So much on your mind... but nothing escapes your lips? What do you do... When you have nothing to say... Your mind empty like death... and the cold feeling forms inside? What do you do... When you fee...
