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TORTURED COUNT

One- I am trying to breathe. I do not offer myself. Everything flows over, within this, my mouth.

Two, three- The surge reveals a child. A symphony of barbs pierce my rest. What is asked of me will not be of the next.

Four, five- Anyone that can hear me, I will tell you something, anything to make it cease. Earnest plea at death’s gate.

Six, seven- Toss me in safety’s grave, that is now my wish of you, my mind’s slayer, liberty’s perpetual destroyer.

Eight, nine- I’ll gladly give up my use, the substance of my collection, feet elevated inside iron shoes, angels slithering to my side.

Ten…


© 2009 mrp/thepoetryman
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