Tell us not about your pain, nor how badly you were hurt.
We do not wish to read of blame; waste not the words in fruitless work.
The value to the reader, rather, is knowing what you saw,
In standing high upon the ladder looking down on all,
The pains and circumstances which brought you to your dread.
The reader only longs to know of dying from viewpoint of the dead.
Tell us of this anguish, these actors in such terrored plays,
How life and death do often jockey for the ace of spades.
Give us secrets death did breathe when close to you he lay,
Yet pleasures finished, he gave reprieve, allowing you another day.
Describe details of blackest reasoning, the minds of those who waive,
A death for life, a terrible teasing; what barters well for the grave?
So pen your thoughts of savagery, your vile and violent episodes,
But leave not out the battery inside the tortured, torturer’s soul.
For here we find the truths of life displayed in naked light,
Darkened heart in darkened wood, at home in darkened night.