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Over One Percent Of Floridas Prisoners Die Every Year In Prison And It's Never In The News
the sun cooks the fences
the guards smoke and laugh
men rot behind steel,
stacked like moldy bread.
over one percent
they die—
nobody counts
except the families,
and the dirt.
a body here,
a stabbing there,
sickness in the cells
that medicine never touches.
no cameras come,
no headlines scream.
just a whisper in the dark,
and silence sells better than truth.
Copyright ©
James Mclain
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