A new poem:

A Call to Scorch this Land

Torquemada
written in the blood of the impure
remembered by those savants and survivors
echoes in the history of western so-called civilization
like the weeds that surreptitiously grow in the well tended garden

the wheels of war are but the means
“kill the leaders and convert the rest”
as he knows that the brutal iron fist
is remembered longer than the delicate kiss

His feral manner was revealed
as the clanking chains tightened
screams reverberated up the spiral stairs but never beyond the iron bound doors
blood begins to seep out of the pores
until the appendages are separated from the torso

the cudgels that propel the perpetrators
down the chutes into the razor wired cells
are beginning instruments to rewire their brains
as he has watched all the recordings in total silence
while his hands are playing pocket pool over and over

Torquemada held secrets
he could hide from his god anointed superiors of king and queen
even from the messenger from his god- the holy see
the pooling of blood and excrement upon innumerable hidden chamber floors
couldn't cleanse his stain of being birthed by the descendants of Christ killers

sitting on concrete and to smell the freedom of the sea breeze
no privacy as the cameras watch without stopping
to survive in an 8' by 10' cell
interrogations go on and on
no matter the time of day
sickness or in health
to be married to the interrogators on this level of purgatory

His beliefs were powered by god
as the white hot coals were driven into their flesh
both bowels and bladder were released
the stench imbued the mute stone walls
while the words of renunciation were disbelieved

he turns to go
closing the door
he must go to the gym
to work out again
to feel good again
to wash away the reality
of what his commandments have wrought

Torquemada has heard no confession from the deceased
with a wave of his manicured fingers
the body will be fried until only ashes remain
the soul
was not worth saving will now walk upon an earthly limbo