On his head
  was tattooed a number
     while through his mind
        flew destruction.

Over his shoulder blew Kong,
        and upon Kong,
             war's breastplate of torture.

A viced gripped and girdled waist
  with spikes tipped to rip the flesh.
A chain mail vest webbed with deism
  and acute despair lay sheathed.

You see him and terror grips,  
           when through his eyes,
             your eyes are reflected.

What is your number.



© 2013