by Nick Gisburne
Salvation is an afterthought at best
Polluted by the ashes of her dreams
The past, the life, the memories, suppressed
The rumble of a thousand smothered screams
Tormented in a crucible of pain
Where mercy and compassion never come
Relentless knives and needles, thick as rain
Or drugs, a living nightmare of the numb
A simple sip of poison, all she needs
Is not within her power to command
No matter what she promises or pleads
She weeps, because they cannot understand
Her body rots, perhaps already dead
Imprisoned in the torture of her bed
