Classic Poem

The walls shriek with the eyes
of mangled pigeons, the weasel's glittering teeth,
the aimless thrashing of the terrified.
The heart clings to the prisoner's hand.
Forever it beats, song of the deserted,
as snipers circle about him.
And still he emerges from the crush of frozen cells.
Absorbed in the spirals of a choked life,
he looks to the interior, drinks from God's spring—

And the visitor shivers. He comes for nothing.