To Die Alone
In a dark, dank dungeon somewhere
heretics continue to live.
The establishment put them there
as rebels who they can’t forgive.
Among these free-thinking rebels
are poets who wouldn’t shut up.
Confined in the lowest levels
there is nowhere to go but up.
They say that hope springs eternal
but who knows where these poets are?
Their hellish home is infernal
and freedom is a bridge too far.
Could you spare a prayer for them
or perhaps, just a requiem?

Walt Abbott–1-2-09