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Frank P Whyte

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  Death Row
by Frank P Whyte
Wednesday, March 16, 2005
Rated "G" by the Author.

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Recent poems by Frank P Whyte
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           >> View all 318





The building is plain,
But you would never fail to notice,

Tan bricks mostly,
And the windows are few,
Tall chain-link fence to deter escape,
Concertina wire douses even the hope.


A single steel door to enter,
But no guarantees that you'll ever leave,
For the locked doors are guarded
By chilled hearts watching, always
Watching, through camera lenses
Mounted high above.


A lifeless voice on the speaker,
And a cold metallic click of the lock,
Allows you to enter
As your heart gallops,
Even though you do not dwell within,
For therein lies death,
Some still breathing,
But dead, nonetheless.

The corridor is long and lonely
As an icy draft blows through.
You can smell fear on the breeze;
Panic, as you follow the yellow line,
And keep your hands to your side.
This is death row, man,
And I would not wander here,
If I were you.

Three checkpoints and you're there,
Without seeing another soul.
And kind faces are rare, for sure,
On death row.
Guard and killer alike,
Locked in a struggle of evil will,
Just to pass the time.

From cell to cell I travel,
Bearing medicine for the condemned,
A sad irony, I think,
As we keep you healthy for the kill.
But I never made the rules,
And I did not decide what is humane
And what is not.
And so I travel from block to block,
And I see you,
And hear you speak.
And I encapsulate my soul,
That I might not catch
The disease of the blighted spirit.

Complexions here
Cannot be described,
For you are pale beyond definition.
Sallow, you are,
With bloodshot eyes,
That bear no hope
As you wait,
And pray,
That the tale of forgiveness
Is true .

Despair is not greater
Than you find it on death row.
You have been abandoned
By even the most loyal of souls.
And on and on it goes,
As you rot
Surely from within,
And you know that your crime
Was committed in a better time,
For no man
Bears well, the rigors of death row.

Let me out
For I am breathless,
And no consideration brings relief.
Thou shalt not kill;
Your crime, and ours,
And only speculation as to who is right.
The Reaper prowls at night,
And is around the corner
In the light,
And there is no peace for those who are
Chained on death row.
 




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Reviewed by Connie Faust 9/28/2010
This one slams you in the face with the stark emotions of death row.
I would not DARE wander there.
Frank, I can't help wonder why there is such a huge gap between posting of this piece and the one you posted today. Your poems are fascinating and skillfully written. I hope you will post more often.
Connie
Reviewed by M. B. 3/16/2005
Wow!

DEATH ROW is raw, in your face, naked and profound.

Mari
Reviewed by Judy Lloyd (Reader) 3/16/2005
I agree that this is true but pardon is there for those that seek it. Me I was also scared of the images of death row. But one on death row a long time ago did buy their peace.
Reviewed by Karla Dorman, The StormSpinner 3/16/2005
intense. claustrophobic. chilling in its imagery and wordage. an excellently penned piece--BRAVO!

(((HUGS))) and love, Karla. :(
Reviewed by Sue Hess 3/16/2005
this was so scary, it is very frightening because it is so true

Books by
Frank P Whyte



Hearts of Gold

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Remedies of Choice

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