This free verse poem utilizes figurative language to describe a scene. The scene is only a short moment in time yet somehow continues from week to week and somehow, feels like an eternity.

You hurry home

At the speed of light.

Heart pounding,

Chest acHing

Head spinning in circles

Round and round.

Boom! Boom!

Against your skull

Shut your eyes and grip your head.

Nose scrunching up into the rolls

Of the hills of a faraway prairie

Where pEace is abundant.

Oh, how you wish.

Index fingers to temples

The pressure builds.

Why are you so tense?

No, don’t even think about it a minute Longer.

Desino, desino, desino, desino!

It won’t stoP.

The more you resist the stronger it grows.

Thick roots coiling around the base of a weeping willow.

The indignation increases

The indignation increases

The indignation increases.

Where is the off switch?

Sudden bellows of cackling

Ring throughout the rooM

There has never been such a thing.

Like black roses and blood red violets.

They exist but in insignificant manners.

Behind the scEnes

And hidden beneath a clever disguise.

Show them your brightest red

And your softest blue.

The “proper” mask for the occasion.

You slam the door shut behind you.

Turn the lock.

Throw the key.

Dim the room

As your heart dims too.

Back into the closet quietly.

Wretched as the eye itself,

Commanding the roaring winds

And summoning tsunamis from the sky

Quite similar to the wetness of your own cheeks.

Only its natural, a twisting spectacle

With greater strength and greater presence.

Knees to chest.

Arms to knees.

Face to arms.

Tears to face.

You are coming loose at the seems.

Lungs confused in the mess of emotions

The air doesn’t know

Whether to go in or out

Or maybe both?

Continue to rock back and forth.

Patience is crucial in such times.

Don’t expect to have any control

When your faith is little

And your mind is clouded.

Cumulonimbus and nimbostratus.

You know this place all too well.

So you make yourself at home.

A splinter in your hand

And a thorn in your mind.

Dwelling in dusk.

Playing a character at dawn.

All the while the roots continue to strangle.

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.