Torpor

My head is shaved, as if ready for the cap,
the sponge and sudden jolting spark
your hands are eager on the switch

My body is a finely covered filigree of lines
scars and broken bones, most are mine
but some were placed by you

My words are a soundless scream, louder
than any full-throated roar, they echo
the solitude of the spurned

My mind is a cacophony of jumbled notes,
stanzas of heartache and murmurs of your name
patchwork agent of adversity

My heart is sunk, far down to my stomach,
dissolving in the acid you threw, it sinks
into meltdown and decay

My eyes stare lifeless, seeing only
your face and your form, pictures
cherished through the surrender

My necked is stretched, the hempen
cord awaiting instruction, and your
hand is on the lever for the drop

My soul is stifled, muffled in harsh
and bitter flagellation, and my
own hand swings the cat

I am cold in this heat, the chill
of winter’s ice still lingering, a reflection of
the snow in your eyes

There is still in me a sonnet, a song
of love and longing that remains, and will
always wait on your call

Yet you endure, as judge and jury
executioner and embalmer, in a slow
spiral fall towards my insignificance

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