Edwin Cordero

Flesh in chains—
Are you kidding me?
Is this a game?
It has to be.
Perhaps some sort of sadomasochistic flame
That extinguishes itself with enough pain?

It's as a picture,
Yet I'm lost in the frame.
Some coarse mystic scripture
That has me wandering and wondering
If this is the correct way
To handle those deranged,
If our methods are, in fact,
Sane.

I'm tied to this;
I can't redo it.
We're lost in
A lethal influence.
These dog chains rattle
In confluence.
I'm losing my mettle,
Where's my endurance?

Our hearts beat faster in this tense spot.
Our minds' schemes fasten up to rot.
Is this a dream?
How unreal it seems
To be jotted under their Heaven's gleam.

There's no light—I find only artificial cold.
Their money might buy nice houses as you get old,
As your soul is sold,
As you're as an Eskimo,
As you betray your people.