Here we are once more,
On this stretch of road
Like keloid covering an old
Deep wound in the earth.
Day by day, week after week
We travel it,
Just as our thoughts follow
The scars of old memories.
There is an urge to dig it all up
And uncover the real, raw earth;
But then we would have to give up
Our shiny fast cars
© Susan Prudhomme, March 2010
Oh, yes! Lock them up. Throw away the key.
They’re caught, and sentenced, just like on TV.
Gone. Out of our hair.
We’re safe and smug.
But where are they, really?
What do you see when you drive by?
(If you look at all, and don’t avert your eyes).
Living tomb, enclosed by razor wire.
Rows of cells, a Cheshire’s grinning teeth;
Behind each set of bars, a man
Who used to hope.
Inside, brutality holds sway,
Its godless priests initiate the willing –
Spiritual vampires, reproducing.
Antechamber to hell.
What? Offer help to those who would resist the Bite?
Treatment, school, a friendly hand?
Bah! This ain’t no country club!
And so they fall, succumbing to the downward slide.
And when their sentences are up,
They will live next door.