Writing is like torture as I’m slapped and
kicked to divulge the secret sins of my
My hands are bound and gashed
As the rough hewn ropes cut and
Bite into my fresh raw
Bring out the glowing cherry red poker and
Barbed wire mesh as they apply the thumbscrews with
A sharp twist and turn along with a mocking jest.
With my head stuffed into the block, my
Feet dangle two feet from the ground
No confession is forthcoming from my mouth or mind
Not even as they pour hot oil in my ear and I hear it
My strength is waning as nighttime
Waxes by , leaving me with little hope but to
Tell all or soon die.
By Philip Wardlow