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.
Oct 25, 2012
Oct 25, 2012 at 4:56 PM UTC
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.
I would not like to cloud the story up with rhyme.
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