The Destitute

                        The world’s muck piles

                        high in these corners, reeking

                        of pungent havoc and forgotten

                        souls. These slimy walls

                        reverberate with muffled echoes

                        that slip through iron bars, devoid

                        of white wings to carry

                        hope to a voiceless god. The

                        ceiling hovers like a heavy mist,

                        dark and putrid, thick and barbed,

                        chocking any head held high.

                        Footsteps fall on a threshing floor gaping

                        with endless chasms where

                        missteps twist the misstepped into

                        vague memories. Here, forgivers are

                        unforgiving and the soother speaks

                        with a forked tongue lashing through

                        grinning lips, while the outside clamor

                        of unbound hands applaud and

                        beckon for an encore. This is where

                        a healing touch decays and

                        withers as the cacophonous

                        shadows swallow warm light.

                        No stars pave the way to an

                        escape; no amount of strength can

                        tear the bonds of this furious

                        storm that confines vitality amid the

                        waves of rotting life. No

                        song comforts, Listen to

                        the empty void of removed memories.