Sometimes the soul is so scared it floats away. Grabbing imaginary balloons, she drifts above the fields where they hunt her, the men from the program, whose harsh fingers she cannot escape.
In the quiet of night I worry for them. They are sleepless children, trapped and unsafe, waiting, hoping that one day, they will come first. Night turns to day turns to night. Time disappears. The flight of the soul is prevalent, and we must fight to insure they are protected.