The hand that holds the whip June 22, 2012

 

 It is not my hand

That wields the whip

Though you think

It is,

Though truth

Doesn’t make the pain

You feel

Pain you any less,

All pain or joy

Is in the brain,

Made real

Even if it isn’t.

Even if no hand

Wields the whip

That lashes you,

They say

The tortured

Eventually

Disconnect,

A mind within a mind

Looking at it all

From outside,

Feeling none of it,

Except the horror

Of what it sees

Each blow

Magnified by

This strange

Connection,

Realizing that

The body feels

The pain

Even when the brain

Ceases to,

Pain that is real pain,

Regardless of whose

Hand holds

The whip.

 

email to Al Sullivan