He spat on the body before him,
It was a shuddering jelly of fears.
The mask on the head of the victim
Was soaking with spittle and tears.
He looked at his face in a mirror,
It shattered instead of reflecting,
The scalpels and scissors of horror,
With which he was busy dissecting,
The eyes, he knew were his brothers.

Practiced, detached and efficient,
His skills were the envy of others.
He believes in religion and truth.
Torture has made him deficient,
Some devil has created a brute.
He is surprisingly calm and considered,
Like a dentist busy extracting,
The teeth of his patients for fun.
Are you sure you still want to be Libyan,
Do you remember those days in the sun?
The rebel chose death over suffering.
The torturer packs up his tools,
His work for the day has been done.
He smiles at his wife and his daughter.
They ask if he’s had a good day.
I gave your regards to my brother,
I said we would meet him to pray.       © Will Barton 2011      Click on images to enlarge