Burning on
the ink horizon
steel trees of light
bone white
blocks of concrete
and making the razorwire sparkle.
The City of the Damned
on a darkening plain
on the outskirts of nowhere.
Souls housed
convicted condemned,
ringed by distances
colder and harsher
than the clinking medal doors and bars.
This vast separation,
the metric
measured in unfeeling hearts.

They are dead to us.

Living ghosts
we dress in white.


A poem I composed one night driving out the the prison. When it's winter it's dark when I drive out to the unit. Dark until I see the lights illuminating the low white buildings. It's startling to see this City of the Damned emerge out of the darkness. A great pool of light out in the middle of nowhere.

Far from sight. Far from our minds and hearts.

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