Torture

The night the young man decided to write
To his old friend, began like each evening
Always did, with a laugh at the peasants
And a joyful finger poked at the royals.

In between there was nothing but a hallowed
Voice streaming upwards like, regurgitated manure
Spilled and silted with acidic fire burning sarcophagus

The night and life had carved in a young man, 80 years
Of torturous pain, whereas even death was enjoyable
Oh the joy! Laughter of the meadows reaped soy, milked
And even transfused into rice fields on permanent light mixes
Torture, oh why did we always sign a contract for our own
Torture.

Christopher Baird 2012 ©