Poesy #8

We are walking —
how long have we been walking? —
but we’ve been walking
and now we are staring down chains
and fire and stink.

And you are laughing, skipping
tripping over iron bars,
along the rattle and the clank,
at the dark black pit.

With people you don’t know
you’re flirting with rust
and then you’re falling.

My voice is like the rest of me,
unheeded and broken
and hurtling towards
the hole that took you in.

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