Cradle Too
Dressed in prison garb and led
To a cell to await trial.
Her futile heart bled
All that was bad and vile.
She sat foetal on a cold floor,
Clanging doors, echoing voices.
Numbness, no bruises, not sore.
Line’s end, no choices.
Warden’s mouth spits barbed spears,
That bounce harmlessly around.
Motionlessly she sits and hears
Nothing, only pounding, rythmic sound.
Her heart still beat, ‘that’s neat’, she thought,
And curled on her side in a knot.
She didn’t want a heartbeat – only nought.
Her whole damned life she’d forgot.
This story went on and no one knew
Of the wrinkles that grew, on the face of events.
Or of the complete degradation she went through,
Under the shadow of social pretence.
This message has been edited by WondersmithWest from IP address 68.144.74.112 on Jun 7, 2004 5:37 PM
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