A Plague of Inspiration

It hits me,


with enough force to break my spine.

With all the warning

of an assassin’s bullet,

it is upon me.


Some might call it “inspiration”,

but to me,

it is a long, dark tentacle,

that snakes up from the deep,

to wrap it’s barbed suckers around my ankle,

and pull me under.


As welcome as riptide,

sub-zero wind chill,

algae blooms,

and moth eclipses.

Striking the unprepared mind,

like a night stalker.


The dark,

fertile soil of consciousness,

ripe with eggs,

that hatch into tiny thought larvae.

Worms in the psyche,

that pupate into winged creatures,

yearning to fly free.

Scuttling and scratching

at the inside of my skull,

until my bones yield,

and they burst forth,

like a plague of vague descriptions,

half-captures nightmares,

and torn shadows,

of love,

and loss,

and pain.


A birth,

not long to recover from,

because the next

wretched wave

rolls on the tide.

Barely recovered from my last episode;

then here comes the next one,

and the next one.

Acts of violence,

stripping me

of my composure.


Just a moment.

More lost that found.

Capture them,

wrestle them,

submit them.

Over and over.

In the end,

I don’t know who wins.



HG – 2020

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