Two Men In A Dungeon

In a dungeon,
deep,
dark,
two men reside;
two men apart

one man shrieks,
weeps, moans
and sits
chained to a clockwork throne
of slashing blades, of prickling pins,
of spikes, of saws, of metal fins –
any piece that harms and maims,
that plucks and pries
like spiders playing at their game
to change their prey before it dies;

and the other man,
he suffers too,
as daily he wakes beyond the walls,
and commutes the dreadful dampish halls;
to turn the crank that works the blades,
and bemoans the blister his work has made.