It's a short poem because I'e finally accepted the fact that I'm running low on writer-juice. Yu-Gi-Oh isn't mine, nor are the characters. *sigh*
He was lying on the stone floor, his body writhing in pain.
Every lash of the whip made him more insane.
The palm that stung his cheek turned into a fist
To deliver what his master called "a sense of justice."
The punches, the bruises, the agonizing blows
Were driven into him to draw out his cry of woes.
There's no telling what the boy did to have this fate.
Was it the dinner he made? Was it because he served it too late?
Usually, the boy would fight back the moistening tears
Would try to bite back the screams of painful fears.
But not this time, because he didn't know what he missed.
He was wary of everything, so to not make his master pissed.
But now? What did he possibly do?
He looked up at his master and whispered weakly,
"What have I done to you?"
Yeah, just a cheap shot to get whatever writer-juice I have left a-flowing.