As I maintain the whip,
As I kneel upon the ground,
I strike myself, not in sin,
But as eternal man profound,
-
I grip the cat’o’nine-tails,
Ever it has been sharper,
I bless my back in welts and wails,
Until I feel no longer.
-
Fifty lashes strong now,
No sin had been committed,
The longing to feel just something,
For love to find, be fitted,
-
O’er and o’er I feel the sting
O’er and o’er I’m branded,
For the darkness inside of me,
For the sorrow I’ve commanded.
-
Ninety lashes, still not feeling,
Swelling, my tongue I’ve bitten,
Until the hopelessness in my heart…
Is dead and long be ridden.
-
Adrenaline coursing and still no pain,
I’ve conquered all but you,
The questions in my heart are somber,
Your face in my mind is glued.
-
One hundred and twenty strokes now,
And forever still seems far away,
Overcoming this paradox,
To curse this mental pain away.
-
I strive for physical touch of blade,
For emotionally I am torn,
I’ve felt nothing until you,
Since the day I was born.
-
A wretched sense of memory,
Caresses my cheek and I
Rip apart myself with malice,
For this nastalgia defied.
-
I wrap the shroud around me,
The thin linnen to my flesh fuses,
I tear it quickly without flinching
Off my gashes and bruises.
-
Still nothing has fluttered,
In the pain recepters,
I wonder how my life could,
Ever be this disevered.
-
It aches and moans with cracks and groans,
My whip, serrated, ne’er faulters,
My robe in flagellation,
Lays down my blood at aulter.
-
One hundred and fifty after the shroud,
I confess I could strike harder,
Perhaps it decidedly best,
If I think myself of fodder.
-
Nightmares are but where I dream,
Yet dream of this, I don’t.
If I were spied upon, I guess,
They’d beg me stop, I won’t.
-
The shroud now soaked with blood and flesh
And false hopes of years of rot,
This punishment is not what it seems,
It is not one to be fought.
-
The outline cry for oil dipped rope,
Has not this pain be stopped,
Moreso however I do fear,
That your love for me has dropped.