Without Ether
I believe the records date back to the early eleventh century. You would know, my love, as we have also shared our profession. The patients would be seized for an extended procession. To the bloody altar, they would be slowly lowered down. They would begin to drown in the agony of their pain. With a swift gash, their appendix, liver or one of the intestines would appear in its carnage glory. The spectators’ eyes would revel in their gory inventory.
Can you see now, my beloved, how it had felt at the time of my alive-autopsied end?
~ ~ ~
From my latest book, Letter-Poems from a Beloved (prose poetry), available at Inner Child Press International and at Amazon.com
hülyaswritings 
an ominous expression from you . . . i get the conclusion . . . i think, however the graphic imagery is strong.
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I also think that I “get the conclusion” . . . I take your words to the heart.
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Graphic stuff, lol. Strong visual quality will scare the $#!+ out of anybody with the exception of executioners, lol. I really enjoyed it so i guess that means i need therapy.
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I remember the year, the month, even the hour of the day when I lived through what was to become the aftermath of a soul-suffocating experience – it all felt to me like a “live autopsy”. I wrote this poem several years ago while many of my teaching materials on German literature in the Middle Ages were acutely on my mind. As for how / why this write-up was prompted . . . I take the 5th (smiles).
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