A poem

In this box where he stood,
his tortured soul and shattered mind.
He would leave if he could.
The large white ghoul that caused this bind,
it trapped and tore,
gripping and ripping,
causing a grotesque sore.
His back was swollen,
he was beaten and bruised.
For now his life was stolen,
he was kicked, snapped and used.
He was a slave to this fashion,
abuse was his life, abuse was his soul.
He begged, but the ghoul offered no ration.
Everyday he kneeled, and stood high, but always remained low.
He had one wish and one goal,
to kill this ghoul who stole his soul.
On a faith filled night he found a pole,
then he beat and thrashed, the blood flew high, but he knew he had reached his goal.