you are strapped to the chair
blinding lights beckoning the sweat from you
a briny stream burning your eyes
your hands are not cuffed
though clasped as if in desperate prayer
the questions fly at you like fiery arrows
piercing the armor you struggled vainly to build

the archer sees all, knows all,
asks for all, and of all

your locked hands cannot fend the queries off
your answers slow the shafts only long enough
for you to see their flaming fletching
the louder your screams,
the deeper the points penetrate
the more resolute your responses,
the greater the number of arrows

eventually, your vessel is riddled with holes,
hoping for holy, with your blood
flooding the floor, like sacred paint
on a deep black
altar of truth