there came the day
that it was time to flay—
or, rather, be flayed—
it wouldn’t be delayed,
the villagers all prayed
for great, flaying weather.
“hurry, tie it down—that tether!”
how can one then describe,
the feeling or the vibe
of one’s flesh beginning to wet-peel,
under hot and tempered steel,
like the laceration of soft, pruned skin—
carving prime rib is to what it’s akin—
nerves strung all the way out
like wriggling worms, a painful shout,
“i can’t take this, what’s this all about?”
the answer came quick with no hope,
“these are just resolutions,
“our way of providing real solutions
“to appease a crowd hungry for delusions.
“as for you on this eventful day,”
Blackhood stepped forward to play,
“it’s lights out, heaven pray!”
crimson sprays
the crowd always gets what it wants.
POET’S NOTE:
Part of the Truth, Applied collection.
© 2026 Tristan Robert Lange. All rights reserved.
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