Friday, August 28, 2009

Terre Haute(Federal Prison Execution Chamber)

I

Out of silence, out of a point, warmth flows.
Acheron bends within me.
Warmth shrouds my limbs 
in cold, antiseptic, light.
Sun's warmth wanes.

I was a boy once. I laughed too.
Now laughter burns
like eyes fighting sleep.
I was a boy.....I laugh,
I cry.

II

The high ground was blessed
with one hundred eyes,
not a cloud in these sombre skies.

It still stinks, drawing its share
of carrion.

The imp tacitly passes.
Cold eyes and colder hearts
scorn the remains.

1 comment:

Beysshoes said...

Although I'm more likely to remember McVeigh's crude remark "It's 168 to 1" ... I think Gerry Spence would like your poem David.