Monday 23 December 2019

The breaking wheel

 

Back in Old Europe,

by swollen Church
and funky dress,

they kept a thing in the
back pocket
of the zeitgeist:

the breaking wheel.

The condemned were
tied down,
the enormous wheel
dropped
on
every
limb.

Drop.
Smash.

Drop.
Smash.

Smash.

Smash.

Life
for the tortured
—at such a frequency—
must feel more like death
might feel
if death could feel like anything.

The broken bones would then
be threaded through the spokes,
the puppet of flesh
hoisted up
to parade its screams
to a crowd.

For those most damned,
the Reaper took its time in riding in
to haul the soul away,
the meat
scavenged
by beasts.

The condemned
were criminals,

but how that fits
fails me.

They might have used the breaking wheel themselves;
that wouldn’t make it right,
only worse.

But here’s no study of justice.
Here’s no study of anything.
No final thought,
no sombre lesson to be learned,

save for

life is hard for all,
and, for some,
death unspeakable.







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