The guard dropped
his keys, and we all
scrambled out.
Fists scraping, sliding,
slashing, gashing
at the walls on our way,
we clambered up
to the promontory
and there we stood,
a hustle and bustle
of freedom's commotion.
Together, we stu
mble, and toge
ther, we break apart,
and together, we hold
our insides together
with hands that
are slipping still,
and away, and sometimes,
it's all we can do
to make it out
of these dungeons alive.

The End

2 comments about this poem Feed