THE BALLAD OF THE SANCTUARY; TW: neglect/abuse/death

I remembered the other day that I had this poem, and I thought you guys might appreciate it. I wrote it when I was 15, so... bear with me. And tell me what you think! I still enjoyed reading it, six years later.



Breaking a few lamps and teapots doesn’t

seem too dreadful a crime,

but it was enough for them to decide

that I needed to serve some time.



“Sanctuary,” they claimed it was

as they dropped me at the door,

but that I believed as much as that

my good sake this was for.



A reeking woman greeted me

and dragged me to my new room,

and it was on the way there my journey began,

my story, one of great gloom.



They were calling, the others, as we passed

for what, I know not.

But their hands squeezed through the bars to grab us,

all gnarled and smelling of rot.



At last, my door we reached and I

was shoved into this room.

It wasn’t so bad, not like I’d just seen,

and my cell mates at least were groomed.



The first few nights I tossed and turned

for the place I used to call home,

for the people I loved that abandoned me,

for my freedom, being able to roam.



My cell mates were never rude or unkind,

in fact, they were quite nice,

but in the night while I convulsed in grief

their eyes were no more than ice.



We were given a “second chance

to live”, in the Sanctuary,

but not long we realize it’d have been better

to be in an obituary.



Two weeks in, I felt grief no more,

but hunger became a threat;

a few days before, our meals stopped coming,

so insanity did abet.



A new cell mate arrived in our room soon after,

and the poor boy thrashed in his sleep,

and yet I did nothing, I sat and stared

with emptiness masking a weep.



As our hunger worsened, sickness did come,

of the body and of the head.

We were trapped, walking in our own waste

and among our dead.



One day, a girl suddenly gave birth,

my cell mates did what they could,

but only in vain, for when the child was felt

he was as stiff as wood.



And another day my vision grew less

as mucus drowned my sight,

and no matter how much I wiped them,

a gunk would block the light.



We were given a “second chance

to live”, in the Sanctuary,

but not long we realize it’d have been better

to be in an obituary.



The coughs and cries filled your ears,

the hunger tore at your gut,

all of our breath turned to wheezing,

we feared eyes that shut!



Could no one hear us calling and

could no one smell the stink?

Walking became a challenge for many,

so we sat together, linked.



There then began a silence as we

prepared for our known passing.

I finally closed my sticky, blind eyes, but

the next moment was surpassing!



I saw a light break over my blur

and thought it was heaven at last,

but hands picked me up and held me close

so I knew my time was still vast.



“They’re nothing but ribs!” I heard a man

shout with rage and disgust.

“And they’re all half dead,” another added,

coughing from the air’s dust.



The man holding me gave a gentle squeeze

and whispered, words softer than cotton,

“You’re safe now,” and brought me peace so great,
my suffering then was forgotten.



My itchy chest calmed, my body’s ache dulled,

my vision seemed a little less blurred,

my hunger too gone, so I flicked my tail,

leaned against his chest, and purred.