Photo by Matthew Ansley on Unsplash
All bent over, all bent down.
Our forms bent over,
A well weighed frown.
Calloused hands well-worn by time,
burned by ropes to pay our crime.
We were children only once,
with trousers rolled and ribbon curls,
feathers placed into our hair
like birds we flew
yet unawares.
Shackled feet with chains clinking,
broken hopes, late night drinking,
when guards who will indulge us take their watch.
Days marked down upon the walls with rock,
whatever we can find.
One day each of us will stop the count,
go to sleep, and let hope die.
We that gave up hope still smile
at star filled eyes and stubborn jaws.
It causes us to reminisce,
of what our hope once was.
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About the Creator
Alan John
I'm a Virginia based writer/musician looking to find my place in this wild wild world.
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