Returning by the three-fold
the past echoes in whiplash
by firm measure the punishment
exacting only what's appropriate

when the scourge is karma's toll
asking only what for what's due
the skin responds against the whip
blistering red in gasped riposte

drawing blood with ever stroke
with a sound few may deny
painting anguish with a brush
loud mercies not yet come

the crop is the master's gift
a skill pressed to supple flesh
that talent evoked to assure
embracing of cold remorse

these fates spun by the lash
around the head and back again
not yet done in the measuring
of rewards beyond the shade

fortune absolved of empathy
when destiny demands a punishment
a chance for doom must exist
if the scourge is meant to sting.

© 2018. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20181025.