by Nick Gisburne
Another adolescent is released,
To sit inside the Swelter Box, to sweat,
A test of his potential as a priest,
To purge a past too filthy to forget.
A dozen days. Not many, some, will die.
Tomorrow he will wish, perhaps, he had,
But, if he begs, the weakness of a cry,
He knows he must emerge forever mad.
For twelve traumatic, stark, sequential days,
They feed him all the cruelties of love,
And, in this hot, intolerable haze,
They mould a modest, meek, devoted dove.
The boy, who now will never be man,
Becomes a priest, a puppet in the plan.
