When the cold steel fist of night
grips my heart, and its darkness,
like a cancer, proliferates through
my blood, telling and re-telling
tales of my long-forsaken past—
of failures and horrible truths
that make the cherished hopes
cultivated during the day’s splendor
dissolve and dissipate into ash,
when the crazy diatribes of cruel
darkness, punctuated only by
stars, careen and echo in chaos
within the walled confines
of my mind, and no logic, no balms
understood and implemented
by doctors or their kind, can soothe
the burning pain that floods
my eyes with tears and cuts off
the very breath from my lungs,
then I must loosen my tongue
and let fly a verse which
describes in a language
only known by me, the pain,
the horror, which my soul screams.
And in that verse, if crafted well,
there is an antidote to your pain
as well, and you too will understand
the pain, and in turn be delivered
from it, with the final shudder
and pang of birth delivering a full
breath, a purging breath, as
the night is made sacred by it.
No comments:
Post a Comment