The fragmented self
So much vitriol
It must be stacked in rooms
To leave others to flee to
Free of anger and self-hatred
But it is there yet
Waiting to drown us
The sense of impending doom
Behind which doors?
Is it forgetfulness
Or a lack of control
That allows the demons
To spring from their cupboards?
Or perhaps secretly
A perverse desire to meet them?
These twisted other selves
Who live in the dark labyrinth
Horned children lurking
Waiting to devour grown-ups
Our need to come up for air
Is what allows them to surprise us
We escape the feeling of drowning
Only through confession of sins
But on the spiritual chopping block
I may only hold down the necks
Of my own darling tormentors
Acceptance is the mother of redemption
Inspired by recent events and a related poem written 35+ years ago.
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