Solitude

 

Something or someone,
Has yet again maimed the Sun.
Hapless, it falls and glides,
Down the demon's throat
Dark, slippery, unending
Bleeding all the way.
Rays of darkness
Unfurl and burst out.
One viciously shoots
Right into the heart,
From where I am beckoned,
To close up, to recede,
To descend the same old steps;
Into the derelict dungeons;
Where I could get locked up.
Or get unlocked;
I could eke out ghosts of the past,
And draw apparitions of the future;
I could unearth Gods of strength;
I could worship them,
Or bury them back;
I could run hands over the rugged clotted wounds;
I could soothe them;
Or rake them;
I could recall and relive and recreate pain;
I could convulse with it;
Or reconcile with it;
Or quell it.
It is all upon me and also me;
It is between me and me.
Which of me will have my way?
And what way will that be?
I assume to arbitrate but,
Am I the sanest amongst all of me?
Let the doors to the prison stay closed.
Yet again, I am in parley with myself.

(This poem first appeared in Wax Poetry Art)