Two men in a jail cell.
One with a scalpel.
One roped to a chair.

The man with a scalpel,
He is no medicine man—
He is a torturer.

The man in the chair,
He is no prisoner of war—
He is a civilian.

Weeks pass by and
The door never opens
Until—

On the one-hundrenth night
Out of the cell, crawls
Only one man

On his skin, there lies
A masterpiece.
A raised rendition of "Starry Night."

Eyes glance back into
His previous prison,
Only to find—

An empty chair.
A scalpel.
A reflection.