Ghost Prison

From down a broken road of
vine canopy, draped and dangling,
the harmonica cries low and lonesome.

Shadow creeps across the valley, shades
the tower where a blind-eyed sentry stares.
Red brick rows sink in red clay, the yard chokes
in weed and insect shriek, and razor wire
flickers in fading light.

At twilight they come, clad
in grave clothes, pressed to the mesh
hammer clawed and weeping.