Windowpain

Tortured souls shuffle past in worn, yellow terrycloth robes,
a sadistic attempt at cheerfulness.
Pacing the long sterile halls
muttering to unseen companions walking beside them,
offering steadying arms.
Sometimes a flicker of recognition in those dead eyes,
but only rarely, signifies a life still haunts the gaunt frame
hunched under the almost too heavy material.
Only rarely does someone from the outside venture in,
and then only for a moment,
to wander down the darkened halls only to flee.
Never again will that face be seen behind the cold iron gate,
their sense of reality heightened by the unforgettable terrors
witnessed within those desolate corridors.
At the end of a distant hall, a figure sits hunched over on the cold ceramic tiling.
Catatonic except for partially coherent eyes
darting from face to face trying desperately to avoid the vacant stares
of the others.
Isolated by the fact that she is the only one
who still remembers the outside, the sunset's rosy hues setting the hilltops ablaze.
Unlike the others, she is a periodic visitor,
never staying more than a few weeks
to collect the scattered thoughts that brought her to her knees.
The only one with hope for the future.
She knows she is not like them,
that she still owns her life,
for the moment.
Yet she keeps returning to this dungeon painted with rainbows,
the only safe place left for her in a world that has denied her.
Her eyes slowly close as she draws in a deep breath
that releases her from her trance.
She stands, as if manipulated like a ragdoll,
and numbly makes her way to an unmarked door
that leads her out of the prison in her mind
just in time to hear the bell for second period.