Wayne Michael DeHart   (July, 2023)

When the Wrath raged at night,
with hot fire straight from Hell,
I disengaged from the fight,
too weary to break its spell.
My endless, painful, plight
wore on without farewell.
That spiteful source of fright
drummed dirges as I fell.

Vicious, vile, it stabbed my soul
with a searing, piercing spear.
It cut me down to half my whole,
it broke my will, it fed my fear.
I struggled to disrupt its goal,
to interfere, to persevere.
But I failed to seize control,
to make the terror disappear.

“Focus, Wayne, the Wrath’s surreal.
Your distress keeps it alive.
You’re the one who spins the wheel.
It needs you to survive.
You won’t get well, you can’t heal,
peace will never arrive,
if you don’t end this long ordeal.
Resist. Reflect. Revive.”

Whose voice was that? Can it be?
The words rang strong and true.
“Breathe. Be calm. You hold the key.
I did my best to strengthen you.”
She read my soul, she set me free,
cleared my mind, framed my view.
Her spirit opens this path for me,
lights my way, guides me through.

Though fury fans the blaze,
and trauma strains my core,
though chaos cuts both ways
through its unrelenting roar,
I’ll conquer this murky maze,
and begin to settle the score.
Then I’ll stare down the days,
till the flames burn no more.

When the Wrath rages tonight
with hot fire straight from Hell,
I’ll be ready for the fight,
and quickly crush its spell.
My dire, perpetual plight
will wane in fast farewell.
That intrusive parasite
will toll its own death knell.

#

Introspection:

Each night, every night, all night .  .  . long, mean, cruel .  .  . it surrounds him .  .  . then daybreak comes, the shadows fade, some faster than others, but all, and soon, at last .  .  . daylight hours bring sleep, relief, time to plan, prepare, persevere, before the next round descends as the sun dutifully drops, and the treacherous trek begins anew, as the weary, wary wayfarer resists throwing his hand, mindful that another dawn will come, just in time, to save him, as the circle cycles unbroken, but for now, as darkness knocks, the violent, visual loop plays fast and hard and the gut-wrenching sound echoes off bare, bedroom walls, and he sets his jaw, closes his eyes, and defiantly turns up the volume in his headphones, and hums along to “Let It Be.” 

–

The Aftermath – “Morning Mind, Mourning Mind” –  (Clean it up, or let it be.)