March True

I walk to the looming building quite voluntarily,
But I feel like guns are pressed to my head.

They all eye me, waiting for me to attempt
To escape, of my own volition, and the only

Thing they can do to keep me here is threaten
Me. Who gives them the right? I ask myself;

The only answer I come up with is: Me. It's
Quite a mistake to do something you don't want

To do, but they are doing what's best for me,
I suppose. Think long-term and it's not so bad.

But walking through hallways shouldn't feel
Like a march that may end in my own death;

Amongst other prisoners whose next door
Opened may also reveal blood-stained gallows.

But does the guise of common good exempt them
From their threats, albeit hollow? I suppose one

Day I can forgive them, but not just yet. There
Is still much work to be done, and very little time

Is left.