The Bezoar – 01.11.15

Lodged deep inside, in a shadowed

Corner of my core, exists a big ball

Of tangled everything. The lost and found

Of the self; the paradise of chaos and hell of sanity.

Bits and pieces, composed

Of fits of unexpressed rage,

Or never uttered fascination.

Suppressed, traumatic,

Compressed and potentially cathartic

They make up a microcosm; a world on its own.

In this world is a city, with walls

Of white face-livid marble and roofs

Made up with dark slate tiles of hidden disdain

Or broken down pieces of strengths and pride

The buildings have their foundations

On white knuckles or pillars that dance with adrenaline.

Around what was meant to be the town's plaza,

Irregular arcs created with jumbled down words;

Their colors, Rosy Guilt, Anger Blue or even Forgotten-Bliss Purple

Are fading, flakes peeling off as memories fade; surely.

They could have been important, before

The Barren White page or Lazy Plague

Sucked the life and energy of this place.

The only living beings surviving on this planet

Are shame-chained lustful beasts

Or feline, docile and playful creatures.

Exiled apologies, in search of their long lost

Voice and opportunity roam the dunes of forgotten bonds.

However amidst the brambles of fear,

Vines of creeping doubts and putrid blooms of betrayal;

Somewhere is another place.

Where threads of lush hope green

And wispy vapor of silver longing

Grin and dance as they

Weave the tapestry of a moonlit meadow.

But do not linger. Do not let the gravity pull you in.

Embrace it, but do not get caught in this warped place.

Lodged deep inside, in a shadowed

Corner of my core, exists a big ball

Of tangled everything.

Bits and pieces, of grit and grime

That can cure my demons or be an end.