A taper in the sinking blackness, the only
glimmer of hope in the mosquito infested cell.
A thin, tick mattress and a scratchy blanket
bringing no comfort was all he had to lie on.
Constantly shifting to stop the rabid scraping,
with encrusted fingers, of the raging, itching
and weeping pus from open sores.
They had stolen his clothes, stolen him,
leaving him exposed in just vest and pants
grubby and frayed now, part of his skin.
Less of himself, than who he was,
who he had been, beaten and broken.
With just a taper of hope
in the sinking blackness.