A Study in Torture


The sound of
Being strapped
In tight
For the time –
No the millionth time –
Of my life
Here in Hell,
Here in the suicide trees,
Here in the chamber –
The pit of my demise.

My body is laid down
Like a slab of rotting meat
On a cold, flat table,
Facing upwards
To a wiped clean mirror,
My eyelids cut off
And bleeding red, thick tears,
To force me to watch
As I am
To be dissected further,
Splayed apart,
My skin held down
To the table with nails
To make my insides
And visible
For all to see
Where my demons hide.

Ready to be
Cooked –
Ready to be eaten,
And reborn,
Just to do it all
And again
And again
And again
And over
And over
And over,
And will it ever


I am strapped in
To my fate,
Never to escape,
The bloodied, leather binds
That bind me here
To satiate
The ferocity
In my captors –
The ones here
To punish and transform me
For my treacherous
Crimes against demonic law.

I cannot move.
All I can do is feel
And feel excessively.
All the pain is amplified
By the fact
That each death I own
Is prolonged
Until I am begging for it –
Begging for a few minutes
Of sweet reprieve
From the carnage
Because yes,
I can die,
For a few silent moments,
But the thing is,
They bring me back
Every time
Just to do it all
And again
And again
And again
And over
And over
And over,
And will it ever


Fasten zip ties
To every part of my body,
On each limb,
To cancel out the lies
From my psychotic mind
For as each tie is fastened
And tightened
Until I am split
Into little fragments,
I am gradually,
In all sorts of ways
So that – well –

I will never be the same.

Once broken down
Like an ancient urn of ashes,
You can never be quite
Put back together again
Or restored to previous glory.
Even if you can glue the pieces
Of the exquisite pottery
Back together,
You will never be able to
Find all the ashes
Spilled everywhere
On the crimson floor,
Dissolving in my own animosity,
To fill up that empty space
Created in my gut.

Spilled everywhere –
Once was I beauty
And seduction
To all that saw me,
And I could make
Crave me,
Want me,
Need me,
With just a kiss
Or a touch
Or a sly smile
From the corners
Of my silver lips.

My silver tongue
Is even more threatening,
Like a song by a siren sung.
Incubus Zalaph.
I guess that’s why they
Mined me for my silver,
Taking it away from me
So that I can never shine again
Like the stars.

Once upon a midnight dreary,
While I pondered weak and weary,
Suddenly there came a tapping,
Like someone gently rapping,
Rapping on my chamber door.

It’s time for round four –
Or could it be more?
I stopped counting the seconds,
The minutes,
The hours,
The days,
The weeks,
The months,
The years,
For the fear
That Hope
Would be the thing with feathers
Perching in my abyss,
Fluttering its wings inside
To keep me going through this.
But I don’t want it there,
Making itself clear.
I’d rather keep it hidden,
Keep it safe and forbidden
From those that would
Harvest it right out of me,
Feathers, beak, and all.

Hope is the thing with feathers,
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all.

I tried to make it stop,
But it couldn’t be bought
To silence its lovely tunes
Of promised freedom
And love regained.
I tried to keep it tamed,
But it would not be silent,
Nor would it stop its thrashing,
And fearful was I
That it would be discovered,
But it never stops at all.

No, it never stopped at all.


Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s