The Torture Sessions

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: July 16, 2016

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Submitted: July 16, 2016

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We're back to that
pitch black
cold, unfeeling room again.
Eidetic images --
the whites of their eyes
and screams that resounded to no end.

A single stringed
light hung
underneath a leaky joist
from fraying wires, the
crude buzzing, tired,
as they sat in their chairs, painfully poised.

Master walked, end
to end,
a sickening grin resting
as they looked on in fear.
Beads of sweat formed; his
infected heart -- lifeless, festering.

Beautiful sky,
silk clouds,
lucid; the plan never sensed.
Pending fatality,
no one the wiser.
Lo, the time for torture has commenced.

Brother someone,
sister
no name; anonymous, slain.
an unfair race to get
out alive; hashtags
just to keep things relevant -- insane.

Just a little
more of
something the world doesn't need.
The media: their mouths --
someone silence them.
Anything to fuel corporate greed.

Stealthily used,
the lot,
for your despicable game.
Where's the love, hypocrite?
And please explain the
"I'll keep silent if it's all the same."


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