it's back

Damn the restless shadow,

trips on the backs of heels, this hot, fidgety air

pushing up on the underside of skin,

stomach gorged with sourceless anger.

God, this burning at the back of the throat,

this expletive always on the edge of freedom.

Senseless, it courses in every limb like RLS,

malevolent. It is a thing that feeds,

leech-like, on the white blood cells,

on immunity.

It siphons, slightly, through fingertips,

into keys.

This is the Wrath of God in the esophagus,

so barely reigned. This is the hell of the mind,

this is the rabid dog’s fury. Powerful,

and then nothing,

drained, can’t even sit up straight, can’t sigh,

can’t cry, can’t pray.

It lays there leaden at the center of gravity,

weighing down the bones.

It is this shadow. It is my shadow. How I resent it,

how I cherish it. How twisted is this love,

this dark addiction. How heavy are the chains.

I am too far north. There is not enough sun,

no light overhead to restrict the darkness

to a puddle at my feet.

No, it stretches long, across the street. It follows,

biting at my heels, the Hounds of Hell

this is hell, I think.

A taste of hell.