The end may be slow to come, but it is sure to do so. Reliving abuse. |
"Night Terrors" Do NOT use the words Dream, Fear, Nightmare It is my life, dreary night in and out Mute, I clamp my trembling lip Over that nascent desire to shout Down slimy slope, despairing, I slip. I shrink in horror from raised voice I strive to extract faint damning praise Emotionless, I have no own choice Trapped, now in unending maze. The scabbard’s edge I walk, mincing steps on scarred and bleeding feet. Shrinking from sure reprisal, wincing at the thought that there’s no retreat. Each word is a like a sharp long pin A flash of silver, no outward sign of how each day it drives further in, Deep into lamenting heart of mine. I pray for end to dread reverie Reaching inwards for some trace Of the vital spark that was once me, undaunted by aught that she would face. Ten years had schooled to do as told But when you turned towards my child And barked that she was cast in my mold That future forecast rose clear and vile She shall not shed tears and stifle her cry She must not have demons at her back We shall both live with heads held high Love will brace resolve long left slack. The end is slow, but sure it comes. Wake up! I hear liberating drums! |