To Console the Soul
Raging.
Weeping.
Raging again.
No retribution.
Cannot reconcile.
Console the soul.
Wild fantasies,
Of the worst kind.
Become a monster myself.
Waging war.
Wounds still raw.
Traumas so deep.
Creeps in, in my sleep.
And a recurring theme,
Is played out.
The horror so real.
But it was real.
And I'm raging.
And weeping.
And raging again.
All I've got.
To reconcile myself.
To console myself.
To console the soul.
S. Camplin
No comments:
Post a Comment