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The immense and silent stone sentinels loom and stare,

out of hundreds of blood red reflections in glass squares,

sun sinks low as the city goes belly up into the dark,

like a dead fish floating on the stagnant pond in the park,

exposing it’s soft white flesh to the swarming flies,

where the hot pipe cracks in the echo of the hookers cries,

the coarse flanks of the sentinels create a tepid warren,

smell of trash and dog shit where the zombies try to score in,

under the damp dim street lights or sodium glare,

once upon a time there were stars up there,

fire up the ovens in the heat of another holocaust,

souls are burned, buried, and all sense of hope is lost,

the cracked pavement damp with blood, semen, or worse,

as a nun sinks to her bleeding knees muttering a curse,

the alleys breathe by night what is hidden in the day,

and still the looming sentinels have nothing to say.

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Political Prisoners

Welcome to the blog from inmates of Maine's jails and prisons.

In collaboration with the Holistic Recovery Project, the Political Prisoners Blog provides a prisoner's view into what's happening at Maine's correctional facilities.

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