Skull deadbolted,
but still It knocks
with the fist clenched white
and the knuckles stained crimson.
(This is merely for humor,
as It knows a power:
the premium penchant
to float through the walls.)
So strong comes the presence,
the hint and the haunt—
sweet angels stripped nude,
assaulted and prodded;
a thousand ticks teeming
to suck on the skin;
young children defiled
by unwilling hands;
an illness so terminal
and stark in the heart.
It sits on the cortex,
the Mind’s mighty cushions,
spewing those Sins
like a long-held secret…
and of all the cruelties,
this is Its worst:
I must sit down beside It
and pretend I am safe.
This was originally published in Spring 2018 edition of The Helix.
