The Hostage

Hostage to
Fortune is the hands
Tied and bound and the
Tongue devoid of water.

How much further the
Burden the pain the
Singularity that scrapes
Long and long. There

Is no life without
Kin and home, there
Is no purpose with
No love growing and no

Hand to hold. All is
Old, old, and well past
Its prime. What
Was my crime? Every

Step deliberated carefully
Seems now pure
Folly - yet to do
Otherwise would have

Been wrong.
I am a singer
Without a song, a
Poet without a

Page, a
Writer with no
Sage words left,
No vocabulary to

Express the
Life unlived, the
Word unheard.
Who is saved?

Where are the good
People once they're
Gone and one is
Left alone

To plead
And rave?
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