Sitting quietly at the table, held in place by rusted shackles,
Embracing my bone-like phalanges in death's grip.
At the fringes of my vision, I note a horrid little creature,
Attempting to circumvent the Master's desire to flay me to pieces.
Begging for my life, as he fears dark aloneness in this drear abode.
The septum wall of my heart barely containing my blood,
As it pounds through its chambers, racing to my extremities, only to return once more,
more slowly, to be reinvigorated with vital oxygen again.
Eyes glazing as the Master approaches, demanding why I should be spared,
When I have disobeyed him, sparing that family from death's harsh embrace.
Shaking in this stone cold chair, my posterior aching from hours of discomfort,
I can only beg mercy of a merciless creature, who's only need of me, is absolute obeyance.
My only ability to coax unsuspecting families to relinquish their souls for this foul creatures pleasure.
My heart recognizing how low I have become to continue with this wretched life.
And, finally with the only spark of humanity remaining to me, I scream my defiance,
And as I had hoped, received a final blow, releasing me from this plane.
For Can you spare a Word or 5?
Septum, Circumvent, Phalanges, Fringes, Posterior