Stretched out on the cold table, hooks and barbed wire dig deep into the flesh. Stretched and contorted to stomach-churning limits. Screams are only background noise to the constant turning of cogs and the dead-heavy songs of shackles and chains. Death does not exist. This place is not meant for death. This place is meant for pain. Maggots swim in eye sockets of bodies drowning in excrement, lungs burning for air and finding only shit instead. Limbless and squirming, pinned against the wall with old, rusty spikes, struggling eternally against the unrelenting agony. Behemoth blocks rest upon fields of people lying down. Tongues are torn out, eyes are sewn shut. The ears are always open for the music of unbearable suffering to bear it's weight onto hopelessness. A moment is eternity, yet countless eons of pain pass by with every blink. What is here is always here. What is pain is existence.
What is this?
This is love.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment