Behind these walls their are souls. Behind these souls their are men. Their are lives. Their are memories. Behind these walls all of this dies. And their is only one. The walls have won the war and the souls have died. The men have died. The lives have no memories. We walk down these halls without our memory, without our souls, and without our manhood for they have won the war and they have won the battle. And life has ceased to exist. Their is only death and it is dark. The air we breath is no longer air. It suffocates our lives, our emotions, and our being. The stench of death lingers, the angel of death is calling and she reaps no mercy on the innocent, or the guilty. They are all the same in her eyes. It could be me, it could be you. In the end it doesnt matter. Whether its today, or tomorrow, or a year from now. Death has no escape. For behind these walls we are one. And she has won. She called me once and I escaped. Will she find you?

Notes about this poem:

Originally published in November of 2006.

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