He holds no whip (too lifelike!), wears no mustache.
His inner monotone drones in the cellar
where wines marked "love" are stored among the ash
of those unburied deaths that found no killer.
His heart has 16 chambers full of secrets
on styrofoam to insulate dry ice.
He screws human pain up to its apex,
excruciating horror, yet precise.
Administered with total dedication,
no screams or static, no thoughts interfere
until success! The soul lost its connection:
He drove the mind out, ear to abjuect ear.
And if the torturer is our security,
Why wouldn't we then emulate his purity?
© 2009 OMYMA
