Category: Poetry
Theme: Progress as an Illusion, Vulnerability
A demon is haunting me.
Down to my veins and corrupted skin:
I taunt as I run away from it,
I know one day it has to kiss me.
I've been wounded by the spears scattered around the aisle.
I keep running away to greet the comfort—
A lustrous desire to win the game,
Only I can be riggish of the holy process.
If this is a jaunce I need to know—
The divine angst shall hear the incensement:
I do not endow the irregulous omen—
That I, one day, have to be killed for fear and settlement.
To rise is to know that I shall abrook:
My heart does freeze as the shallow aches—
You do not know the cubiculo of my history,
Yet you disrespect the spilling blood of my widowed tongue.
It is an offense to gainsay my surface—
You cannot see what is haunting me:
Your words vail like a teasing fee-simple,
I pity your hest telling me not to worry.
There is no oasis in the desert I navigate,
I crave to live but the ties do pull me.
One mirror to see the reflection of the demon:
The history reaves my continuing relapses.
And my apparition is a shotten thing now:
My will darraigns my living proof—
The feet I have step forward with a garboil:
This life is full of windring brooks.
If I tell you that I am the yesterday,
Is it an affiance to still want you for tomorrow?
There is no halidom for me to go—
The demon that's haunting me is me.
Photo: Chaos (2021) by Darein P. Catchillar
No comments:
Post a Comment