The Executioners' eyes, I would guess,
Said, 'I cannot bear to say good-bye!'
Then, I was locked in an iron maiden,
Until my ribs cracked, neck snapped.
At a busy workbench, a jar of spit,
And a few loose records kept messily.
Pliers and tongs and a repair-kit,
In case a torture-device was broken.
I wanted to look him once in the eyes,
As he crammed me in but fainted-fear,
His gaze was averted, the last I saw,
Was a baggy black hood and well-fed gut.
__________
Copyright 2023 Jeffrey Merk
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