It is an impulse that grows stronger,
the urge to escape. It is the protest,
a prisoner speaking out who says:
"smuggle my soul through the gate;
split my heart in many directions".
They followed with brutality unlike
any attack that marked the beginning
to an end, their first thoughts-
peace is a funeral, the mourners
become the prize. In the cemetery
the wounded grow weaker, smaller,
less human more stone.