Prison Walls

The prison walls sweat flesh moisture. The dripping product of thousands of close-packed captives, chained together in lines. They need help to sit down. The guards don’t help them.

Someone has died. He collapsed inward like a rotten tree, and dragged the prisoners next to him to the ground. They try to pull him up. Guards come. They don’t have keys. They cut the dead man’s hands, and pull away his corpse by the ankles. Nobody talks. The line is broken. 

It’s shorter now. It’s easier to sit down.

Someone laughs now the guards are gone. He’ll die tomorrow.