In the dungeon of despair, I wandered through,
A flophouse, a place that tarnishes the view,
With only one light bulb, dim, barely bright,
65 men huddled together in the night.
The chorus of snores, a deafening sound,
From deep within, grotesque and profound,
Dark, snotty, and inhumane in their tone,
A symphony of suffering, an otherworldly moan.
The stench of unwashed socks filled the air,
Mingling with the scent of piss and despair,
Over it all, the stagnant breeze did flow,
Like the foulness emanating from garbage below.
Bodies, in the darkness, thick and thin,
Some bent, others limbless, a sight so grim,
Among them, the mindless, lost in their trance,
But the absence of hope, the worst, left no chance.
It\'s unbearable, the weight of their pain,
I couldn\'t bear it any longer, I had to abstain,
I stepped outside, into the cold, bleak night,
Wandering the streets, shrouded by darkest plight.
As I walked, I pondered the men I had seen,
Once innocent children, where had their dreams been?
And reflecting upon myself, I couldn\'t help but rue,
What had happened to them, what had happened to me too?
In the darkness and cold, my pen finds its way,
To write this poem, an attempt to convey,
The haunting struggle, the cycle of despair,
In hopes that empathy may be lifted from this air. (\"Once Innocent Children\") by Courtney Weaver Jr.