by Nick Gisburne
The life of every Broken One is bleak,
Avoiding those who shout and spit and stare.
A label damns but drives us forward: ‘freak’.
Defective, we were born beyond repair.
As misfits, uncorrectable, impure,
We have no rights, no reason to exist.
Our hated state, of which we are so sure,
Is reasserted, daily, with a fist.
I watched a woman once, who tried to pass
Beyond the Gate, where none of us can go.
She took a step, but never touched the grass.
They killed her, with a single, savage blow.
We do not dare to question what is right,
Abused and beaten, too afraid to fight.
