You can hear them scream at night,
the men, locked in,
over at the hate factory.
It's a kind of purgatory.
A winter time
for the mind.
No light gets in.
No love either.
But you can see it all below
through the bars
on the window.
Apr 7, 2023
Apr 7, 2023 at 10:51 AM UTC
Request permission to use this poem