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In the dim of a cell, under watchful eye's leer, Sam's tale unfolds, with nothing to cheer. A wrong turn, a slip, into shadows he fell, Trapped in silence, a personal hell. Within these walls, where despair creeps slow, Sam found a bar of soap, a strange glow. Not a beacon of hope, but a mark of his fall, A reminder of freedom, now beyond call. The soap, silent witness to Sam's silent plea, A symbol of cleansing he'll never see. For in this dark place, where time melds with fear, Sam's dreams wash away, with each unseen tear from another mans pee pee.