The Slave

My shoes, are worn, ripped, torn.

I am lucky, to have shoes at all.

I am kicked, ignored, beaten.

Yet, I speak not a sound.

Life here is like a jail cell with no escape.

Except here there are people who taunt you, belittle you.

As if I am below them, unworthy.

Because life here, is not a life.

My skin, is covered, in numerous bruises.

I sometimes wonder, is it because of it that I am unworthy?

Is it because my skin is not the color of a peach?

That is darker than midnight without a moon.

I wonder in this as the living mummies sleep.

I get the feeling, I will never get an answer.