Down the steps they were led
Shackled and chained together
The roof on their bodies bled
Slipping and stumbling, tethered
The impure rust on the leg irons
Grazed on their flesh and blood
There was no one here to rely on
If only they could
Down turnstile steps they descended
All lost in fear of thought
Would the last step be life ended,
Yet hope lays dormant if caught
These pitying souls as glanced
Beaten, broken and confused
Would grasp and lunge at the chance
Of affection while being so abused
For some life’s darkness grows deeper
And most care little or not
It is wrong to yearn for the reaper
When all should have shares of the pot |  |
