Tuesday, 03 July 2012
From the four-year-old
crying in the corner with slit wrists
to the caged, enraged wild animal
mauling the villagers—we are all one in the same.
The difference between one and the other
is the amount of time (and fire) it takes
for me to become my reckoning.
The force at work (the flames burning on my tongue)
has sculpted out a new identity,
burned a new path through the underbrush;
and a haze of smoke lingers over the land,
after the plain has been flooded with tears,
blotting out the existence and essence of the sun.
From the ashes rises and writhes the savage soul within,
the monster I have made with years of fear and doubt;
he scalps the land, rapes and pillages, devours distaste
in a whirlwind of rage, twisting, turning, towering.
He finds the doe-eyed four-year-old, a lifeless husk
laying strewn across the field, and with a tenderness
only a parent could muster, envelopes the child.
Cradling innocence in his arms he shrinks to size,
doe-eyed and developed, but still only a child with a wildfire temper.
The temptress, a taunting storm, both savage and soothing;
she strikes fear and fire into the heart’s of men, but
soothes and suckles them with tears and torture—
a fickle mistress and a fair maiden, but she is also one-in-the-same.
She craves attention and sensuality, a spirit possessed of selfish songs,
she sings like a siren, wailing at the wall, the song that lures sailors
into the cage that will capture and kill them with endless time,
and the thought of one day sailing home, to harbor; heaven.
But we are stuck in this perpetual hell, propelling ourselves
down the winding, this gyrating gyre disappearing in darkness.
From the four-year-old’s first bloody tear
to that moment when the pin is pulled
and the grenade is launched,
we are all one in the same—