Slave Poem by Saint Cynosure

Stowed away but not by choice,
carried someplace strange.
Packed away in wooden walls,
before the sounding of new names.
Gripped within by unknown fear,
everyday a brand new place.
Seems that every sound to hear,
comes new before the face.
Shackled for some unknown crime,
a servant because of weakness.
Outnumbered by so many men,
safer in my meekness.
Keeping nothing once before,
losing it to reason.
Punished for crimes against the world,
it seems color is a treason.
Forced to be another man,
a life lived until the grave.
And work has long has I can stand,
like every other slave.