Tired, soulless, vacant eyes,
Anonymous, below dark skies.
Stare silently, through grimy glass,
As minutes, hours, and days, just pass.
Tattered armchairs, soaked in pain,
Shelter, whispered prayers, in vain.
Shuffling steps, in ghastly halls,
Are muffled by the bloodstained walls.
There is no sign, or breath, of hope,
For these poor souls, who fail to cope.
Just whisky days, and wine fueled nights,
To dull the glare of demon lights.
Throughout this sad and soulful place,
I see no sign, of God's good grace.
As if the inmates realize,
This is the road, to their demise.
_ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
A good poem that highlights the halfway the limbo of forwards or back, teetering on the precipice, but ultimately weathered down to base parts and disappears.