Road Zero

Through the swamp 

Angelo Madrid

layer upon layer

The fine hairs of men

meshed with the blood and bone.

Pounded, down, the ground

graves sweat out history.

Flowers form a bridge

grown on human remains.

Night's echo the loss

sounding out, screamed and condemned.

Marched, punished men,

created road zero.

A prison cell twelve feet wide
three-thousand live long.

Through the interior of pain

blistered hands reach out.

Tortured tired souls

exhaust their final breath.

As road zero goes on

metering death.

Rob Kennedy