I see the thing in front of me,
Made of wood.
It is curved,
Carved by machine.
It can be placed on something,
But it may sink through.
I can feel it,
It is just like me.
Formed from the dust of the earth,
I am not it,
But it is me.
Ages have passed,
But it is still the same.
It hasn’t suffered,
The many countless torture sessions,
That I’ve had to endure over the years.
It is just there sitting perfectly still,
Like a human statue.
It has no marks,
It’s outside is completely normal,
But its inside is mush.
Salt in the wound,
It feels nothing,
Because it is prone to suffering.
It should be burnt to a crisp,
This statue is just,
A dead man walking.
It knows only what it has seen,
What it has heard,
Will never be let go.
The darkness grew from the words,
The hatred that was yelled,
It will never be fine.