Manufactured

The chamber steel,
its walls robust.
You wake within
this your new world.
The heat is draining;
steps bring pain.
Smoke ensures your
labored breathing,
makes your vision
only memory.
The panels creep;
you hear their grind
and know that staying
means you’re pulp.

The pressure full,
you crawl and grope
your prison, floor to top.
No exit found,
your plight has won;
you slide into a ball.
The chamber comes,
its walls devout, and
soon will be your end.
But then, a stirring
in the air, a breeze
your panic veiled.
You trace its source
just soon enough,
but could it really be?

A duct, it greets you,
breathing hope, and
soon its grating pried.
You find your head,
your arms, your torso,
climbing safe inside.
You tuck on through,
those quarters now
a sliver at your rear.
The air outside is
fresh and pure, you
find with stiff relief.

A kind man meets you,
now at rest, and hears
your harrowing tale.
He ponders, squints,
and then confides he
cares for all this land.
He knows no chamber,
no such death, but
but only light and life.
His wishes well,
he bids you find more
homely this new place.