Dear Death,

I had a name

Now a number.

I had a place to call home

Now a capsule.

I had all life’s pleasures I care about

Now a rope around my neck which go taut

Every now and then.

I wince at my captor’s sight.

Or he may exercise his might

out of pleasure or boredom,all the same.

I might be broken beyond repair

As his abuses bring no more despair.

He may rule,but not an inch of my soul.

I may become an object of recent disposal.

My experiences were varied but it shall

Never alter the way I see me and my world

The world,I saw with my coloured pencils

And my father’s night time stories.

Yours sincerely.

Photo by Christopher Campbell 

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