soft grumbles

I see you being handled
by your torturers again.

Men and women in white robes
poking every inch of your body

listening, probing, searching,
invading even your soul.

Manacled with chains
of rubber hoses

steady drip of sugar
in your veins

your bed, solitary confinement
for having done something wrong

your room, your prison cell
from which there is no parole

I watch in horror
as your torturers handle you

for in a few more years
it might be my fate, too.

rolly