being empty being dry
upheaval of emotions, dry heaves when I cry
a primal scream tears from the caverns of my throat:
ripping the esophageal lining, shredding the thin skin
inside my cheeks.
I've been like this for weeks, an empty being, a dry thing. A silenced thing. Yet this has been churning in me, twisting and turning, ricocheting off of the invisible barriers, the undaunted expectations, the emasculated sensations drawn together in a whirlwind of thistles and thorns, falling in places like unwanted rainstorms - rain, rain go away come again another day - except when voice rains thorns and thistles, there is no desire for the return.
And so when the primal cry escapes, it is a hurricane force blast of anger, fear, wind, blood, tears, pieces of the invisible barriers and emasculated sensations mixed with pieces of esophagus and cheeks.
It is a violent, bloody thing. It is a nameless demon; the origins, thus the reasons, are unknown. Anger isn't strong enough nor fear descriptive; apathy cannot claim it nor volumes of definitions define it
it eludes me yet hides within me;
if only I could find it, I could let go of it;
yet I hve no golden string and I fear the Labyrinth
of experience will swallow me in walls of reasonable traditions that have become excuses for the manifestation of the demon.
Yet, what if it is no demon at all? Not to blaspheme but simply to mistake, what then would it take to admit that the creature in the Labyrinth is actually Creator? To be sure, this would not alleviate my anger nor the violence of my screams; only now there would be ears to hear, not a demon manifested but a Redeemer revealed, a Spirit who heals.
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