Left For Dead

• Olivia Pointon
• Poetry
• 2009

The silence is broken by the swelling clink of chains
Figures with sallow skin and hefty veins
A musty scent wafts through the air; blood and sweat
Though on the verge of death, there is no regret

Overalls, patched with shreds and torn
To the mercy of the whips the wearers are forlorn
Scarred faces blanketed by unwashed, matted hair
Unveil the lives of solitude and despair

Man, woman and child practically left for dead
Their every waking moment dominated by dread
These are the convicts of our ancestral source
Why have we no remorse?