94 14 11

he hid it well,

those years of hell,

tears rusting chains pulling him down,

hands stained brown,

tugged and tugged,

climbing metal rungs,

blood-crusted flesh,

cracked hope repressed—




—night cloaking withered heart,

quietness shrieking, his soul scarred,

drowning sounds of slithering chains,

couldn't hear the stars whispering in vain,

I see you.

PoetryWhere stories live. Discover now