The aisle smiled stoic underneath my weight.
Without the bars support my hips would creak
and I could feel the heavy grind of slate
on bone on crumbling cartilage. This weak
and worn down form – I once would bang my chest
and strike down men or anyone that stood
against my strength or spirit. Who would test
the man I was? But now these arms are good
for nothing but to free the air of flies,
half finger swear the prison guards, or grip
that chair, while lisping rats and all their lies
their bloody lies that now will burn my lip
and melt my heart. Forgive, forgive? Oh lord
I try, but hate is all these bones afford.