For when I lay cold,

I have a request

I would like every guest

To bring something to my rest

Something so delicate

But yet can brighten a day

If the wind is too harsh

It will wither away

Just place it on me

I swear I’ll be still

By nature I am clean

But by hands, I am killed

A single will do

Or maybe a bouquet

The aroma and colors,

Make it easier to be brave

I know all your tender spots, those places that hurt the most and I'm going to dig into them, poke them, prod them, pummel and pound them.

I look at you lying there, so vulnerable, and chuckle to myself knowing you will soon be pushed to the limits of your pain.

Should I use my thumbs? Elbows? Suction cups? Needles?

Should I pull your limbs? Stretch you? Contort and twist you?

The pleasant music sings in a lying lullaby.

I grin and crack my knuckles. Oh where should I begin...?