HOLES

by Teresita Perez

Puss draining from his side
through a hole they did create.
Air pumped-in through his throat.
Final doom his gloomy fate.

Holes poked in him at all hours.
Labs determining how fast,
prostrated, his look of terror,
the man would reach death at last.

He lived a life poking holes
with fire held to his hand,
burning holes right into clothes
and furniture across the land.

"Anyway I'm gonna die,"
was the defense of his voice.
For two months forced mute I watched him,
torturous death of his choice.

Copyright © 1987, 2020 to Teresita Perez

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