I write insane poetry’s
          To magnify my desires and the Hell
                     that lives inside me
         Or my soul would have had to settled
                   in its misery and loneliness
in silence.
      And that, I wouldn’t ever be able to live with.
For it would have been a slow death

let me listen to you
your hidden landscapes
your lives lost
in velvety oblivion

listen to the streams of blood
throbbing at your wrist
in the tender flesh inside your elbow

listen to the vulnerable intensity
in the soft vale at your collarbone

the silence on your lips
the whirls below

listen
listen through you
to these things that one cannot speak

by Ioana Ieronim from Ariadne's Veil

You can hear them scream at night,
the men, locked in,
over at the hate factory.

It's a kind of purgatory.
A winter time
for the mind.

No light gets in.
No love either.
But you can see it all below
through the bars
on the window.