Trains were good… before
To visit family or go to work
But no longer
Now a symbol of fading freedom
Hot, sweaty, long trips to the buildings inside the rusty barb wire fence
All the same… death.
Our names were left on that trip,
Now they call us by the blue ink on our arms
Each day is cold,
Each day is long
Hours of battling the urge to quit
For what?
A piece of moldy bread?
We don’t even get our own beds.
I am tired
Less and less fight each day
Skin and bones
“No strength to remember”
Help them see
Were human too
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