Lies to Men


You speak of a haunting, sir?

You know not of true haunting until you have heard the words of ones own mind.

In turn, they know not of forgiveness; of mercy.

Never heeding to ones pleas of stopping.

Though born as mere whispers, they crescendo into screams.

Screams of anger.

Screams of hatred.

Screams of murder.

Over and over and over, over, over.

The mind does not cease.

It turns one to writhe in agony.

In utter torment.

You spit your lies of torture to these men.

You have never known torture's face.

Pray you never do.

  • Author: Hannabal (Offline Offline)
  • Published: November 2nd, 2017 04:53
  • Category: Unclassified
  • Views: 15
  • User favorite of this poem: Anna Marg.
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