China's Death Vans Poem by James McLain

They don't make a sound,
just roll through the streets at night,
metal doors closing on guilt.
No trial, no pleadings,
just a final breath in the back
of a van that knows no mercy.

The engine hums like a secret
no one wants to hear,
shaking the last thoughts from a man
as the cold air turns to lead.
In the back, there's no room for regret,
no room for last words.
You just sit, a few moments left,
as they drive you to the end.

They pass the smog, the lights,
through the dark streets they glide,
no headlines, no cameras,
just a job that's done in silence.
They don't tell you what's coming,
but you know.
The van's empty when it returns.
And the streets go back to their noise.