[asylum]

On a misty night, the Bokur sits aside the mixing bowl and lifts his eyes,
gaze resting on a group of servants who live their lives,
mixing his mixture, making dishes of dirt with efficient concern,
tidbits of The Good Earth, a less delicious hors-d'oeuvre.
Their consciousness taken by toxins he’d placed in water basins and rations,
left past thoughts erased, bodies exhumed in the usual basement.
Brought from their tombs into an unusual stasis,
he taught them menial tasks while abusing his less congenial patients.
A whip bit into the back of a mischievous mason, before he barked,
“Unchain him. That’ll teach ya not to leave your previous places.”
With skin hanging in ribbons, as he passed to shuffle out the door,
daylight reflected in eyes like saucers as his heartbeat suddenly soared,
lunged with troubling force, stumbling forward like gluttony's sword,
he fell upon his captor with rapture and hungrily gorged,
The sorcerer forced out a loud cry through a throat that hung open,
spraying blood from his gaping neck until he lay frozen.
The hungry Haitians numbly waited, trying to wake him patiently.
Until their stomachs ached so painfully, his flesh became a blossoming fruit,
They traced his skin with bony fingers and long nails, fondling through,
nibbling on the outer edges of wounds at first sight of their promising juice,
explored with a wandering tooth into muscle before biting and grinding,
releasing gases from inside their witchdoctor, his organs slipping and sliding,
gripping his hide, they ripped out his eyes while slurping on things inside him,
while their gaze moved towards the bloody wounds of the mason who lay smiling.