Penal

In the grey hush of stone‑cold wings,
where iron bars hum a low, relentless chant,
the penal air clings to breath like soot,
each sigh a tally of time’s ledger.

Footsteps echo down corridors of slate,
a metronome marking debt to society,
while shadows stretch long across the yard,
drawing lines only the condemned can see.

Here, reform is whispered in the clink of chains,
hope tucked into the seams of threadbare uniforms,
and the gaol’s cold heart beats with a paradox—
punishment’s stern hand, yet a chance to mend.

Beyond the walls, the world spins on in colour,
but inside, the palette is muted to stone and steel,
where every sunrise is a measured pardon,
and every sunset, a reminder of the debt.

So we walk the thin line between retribution and grace,
the penal verses etched in brick and conscience,
seeking, in the quiet of confinement,
the echo of humanity that refuses to fade.