Death Comes Soon

My stiff back,

Leaning against the rough wood.

Legs pulled into my chest,

As if to get away from the cold stone floor.

Flies buzzing,

Around my stinking,

Half dead body,

And dirt,

Getting caught in the spaces between my ribs.

Dreams of the sky,

I no longer see.

Hatred of the water,

Which I used to love,

But now sit in,

Day,

After day.

Cold wind blows in through the high slit,

That doesn't show the sky.

Not an inch.

My way out blocked by a barrier;

A large,

Unforgiving,

Metal door.

Opening,

Showing the time is midday.

A single piece of bread,

Every other day.

More water spilling onto the floor,

As if drinking water off the floor,

Can somehow make me more pathetic.

The door opens countless times,

Showing the passing of hours,

Of day,

Of Weeks.

Considering trying to escape,

But hearing only the coughs of other dying prsioners,

Outside the door.

Coughs.

Just like mine.

Door opening,

Meager food shoved in,

Time passing endlessly,

Pointlessly.

A small soggy pile of old,

Rotting bread,

Because caring about my world,

About my miserable existence,

Is so far beyond me,

That I no longer even bother.

Ribs protruding more,

Death coming faster.

Caring less and less,

As the haze of starvation,

Dehydration,

Lack of sleep,

And complete apathy,

About my situation fills my mind.

Time still passes,

I think,

But they've stopped opening the door.

Death comes soon.