We had the prisoners so trained to pain,
familiar with incision and slice,
numb to puncture and exit,
that they wouldn't even scream
as they collapsed
engulfed in flame.
They thought they held something back,
some ambiguous gasp behind clenched teeth
designed to drive us mad with inquiry,
but when their bodies hit the floor,
jaws slacked and lungs deflated,
we heard hope spill upon concrete
like so much drool from dreamers,
our laughter soaking it up like pillows.
Ink is a Central New Jersey author who appears irregularly and without warning in various spots throughout the NY/NJ/PA area and even more sporadically in literary journals and magazines throughout the world. If what you've read so far has ignited an interest in a bio, check out more of his work online at www.inksblot.com.