Circles of Insanity

Softly sleeping in the folds
Of silky swabs on the deck
Of a sailing ship,

Echoes of rhythmic pounding
Drive through my aching temples.
Who is the captain of this roguish craft?

Who gave the orders to
Run a rampage through the hearts
Of innocents, to cast a dark shadow
On the wretched faces of children?

Only somber tones can soothe
The memory of that castigation.
Only blood can satiate
The appetite of such hungry wolves.

Who would be so uncouth
As to disturb the peace and order
Of a simple man and his wife
Dining in the privacy of their home?

Who would be so rebellious
As to eat the flesh of a sacred cow,
Such as one that hovers nearby
A holy temple?

Only the whispers of a lovely pixie,
Dizzily dancing round and round
A bonfire in the depths of the
Ancient forest can come close

To enchanting this unworthy
Troll that casts a horrible stench
Across these pristine hills.
What is worth her ritual?

Who can begin to imagine
What demons lurk behind
Jagged rocks and at the bottom
Of such abysmal pits?

Who is willing to march across
Abandoned cities, pillaged
To the extreme, sacrificed to
The appetite of barbarous dogs?

How can one come to grips
With the secret blessings that hide
In the recesses of one’s mind,
Accessed solely by nymphs,

Loathed even by the heartiest of
Gargoyles, cursed with the shame
Of encountering the reflection
Of their offspring’s soul?

How I weep at the glimpse
Of my only morsel of redemption,
Hiding in this minuscule kernel
Of truth, buried underneath

Millions of centuries of lies, rumors,
Tales and sweeping romantic
Reunions between lonely
Peasants, clinging to hope,

Ready to die at the first symbol
Of heavenly, cascading rivers of light!
“To be young again!” they scream.
To be free of this overwhelming

Nightmare, to escape the tortuous
Gaze of the wild doe, caught in a trap
Of spikes and razor blades.
Lost is the promise of deliverance,

Once again.

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Author: Gordon S. Bowman III

Writer, Visual Artist, Blogger, Advocate

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