Letter From The Warmer Regions



This guy in the other pit.

He’s got a better demon than me.

His can taunt with a sharper wit.

Mine’s mind is weak, I must admit.


Frank, over there, gets the common stuff.

Acid drip, disemboweling, a bit of frying.

You’d think these things were too rough,

But demons do their best by trying.


Sometimes my guy makes things fall off.

An ear, my nose, a nipple or a toe.

I’ve lost one lung – which makes me cough.

And other things. That’s how things go.


But this process is a losing game.

(Pardon the pun) I’ve had to grow them back.

My demon’s required to make me blind or lame.

His torturing suffered for the lack.


The first millennium can be a trial.

But you can accommodate to anything.

The red hot knives, freezing cold, drowning

Can, at first, evoke screams, make you sing.

But, after a century or so, brings only frowning.


My demon and I, between torture sessions,

Now entertain ourselves by playing chess.

Neither he nor I retain any aggressions

And he dislikes cleaning up the mess.







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