Medieval

My body is an iron maiden, sharp
And pointed pain that pierces through my back

And legs. What? Shall I slide down this rough scarp,

Attempting to escape my body, rack

That wracks me, in the hope that other pain

Will wrestle me onto another plain? 

I wrestle in my bed with no one, throw

The blankets as I turn and writhe and groan

And turn with tight-backed movements they made slow

Until the aches and needles throw their last stone

And I am pushed into a sleepless sleep

Discomforting my night until I weep.

The pain of spirit and the pain of mind

Arose and were resolved and humbled me--

The pain of body now has joined to bind

It all. How shall I be an escapee

This time? The badlands stretch and crumble down

Beneath my feet, beneath the star-dusk gown. 

There's a brazen bull that bellows through the night

And keeps the mind awake--I fail to pray

No more--I am the prey of pain's delight

In being senseless, pointless. It will flay

Me, try to slay me, but I will not slip--

The scarp is steep--I live upon the tip.