Sitting on the bus
with the other convicts,
varying extents of self-awareness
on display,
I realize,
despite our differences
and hatreds,
we’re all the same.
Screwed.
Prisoners
of the choices
we’ve made
and/or
been forced into,
our names
long since signed away,
hopes and dreams
but a fading,
mocking,
memory.
©SvetkaSamizdat
…
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