The gentle knife into his flesh cuts a

single line through skin so scarred it

is impossible not to trace them

Expert precision draws the blade in

a dance across his painted skin

lines drawn where incisions run

detailing tracks like palm lines

What does this future hold?

Sleepless eyes brim with pain as

each nerve severed reduces him to

a broken mess muscles rigid against

imperfect skin against restraints so

carefully designed to hold him

And still the master cuts with patience so

delicate the irony is sharper than steel

his body and soul intent on the craft that

bleeds the victim before him

Pride chokes his screams and clamps his

jaw but cannot stop this blood from running

cannot ease the panicked chant of consciousness

screaming I am dying I am dying

I am...