The Exorcist.
Steward Of Words (SOW)
The_Exorcist
Caveat:
We will be here for a long while,
And I shall do you a poem that will scare you...or maybe not because your conscience is dead...
Warning!
This poem is for you..
This poem is for the dead.
The broken...
It shall be an anthem to be sung in the afterlife after life ceases to exist.
This poem will make sense more to those to whom life has ceased to make sense
For it shall thrive only if death becomes living
It shall speak of yesterday but not of tomorrow,
This poem shall tell-tales but you shall not see them.
Until it hits you...
It shall seek to heal you but your healing will not come
This poem is not here to heal you...
The things that trouble you are beyond this poem...
This poem shall take your mind on a journey to the things that you are, and that you are not
This poem is a signature,
Signed on broken bones
Shattered hearts...
Dead ones...
Breathing ones,
Note:
Not everyone that breathes has life,
You know this...
This poem tells you that.
Certain wounds never heal.
This poem tells you that.
Some live on in others,
Inflicted by the inflicted.
Hurt people hurt people,
This poem tells you that...
Some move on but like zombies,
And like Chameloen wastes their feet stick to muddy grounds, to the past.
This poem shows you how.... It shows you where...
It takes you on a walk through your head...
....This poem shall deep its hand into your heart and you will not be able to resist...it shall move left and right in the mucky waters of your thoughts and bring them to light when it pulls its hand back out...
This poem shall be your exorcist,
It will cast out your demons...
And leave you empty...
Needy,
Thirsty.
This poem is half prophecy, half autopsy.
It is an "exorcist" it does not comfort it exposes.
For example:
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This poem shall peel your skin away...
Not the skin your eyes can see, The other one... The one stitched together from excuses, From swallowed apologies, From lies rehearsed so many times They learned to answer to your name.
This poem shall undress your soul And hang its garments upon a wire For all your ghosts to inspect.
You will watch them gather...
The child you buried beneath adulthood. The promises you strangled in their sleep. The faces you forgot, Who never forgot you.
They shall stand in a circle around you, Silent as gravestones, And each shall carry a fragment Of the person you abandoned To become what you are.
This poem shall count your bones...
Not the bones beneath flesh, But the fractures.
The crack made by your father's anger. The splinter left by your mother's silence. The break formed when love arrived Holding a knife behind its back.
This poem knows them all.
It has crawled through the tunnels beneath your smile. It has slept inside your nightmares. It has fed on the worms That feast upon memories.
This poem is older than your suffering.
It was there when Cain lifted the stone. There when Judas counted silver. There when the first frightened man Pointed at another and called him monster To avoid seeing his own reflection.
This poem knows That evil seldom enters through the door.
It grows quietly...
Like mould beneath wallpaper. Like rust beneath paint. Like roots beneath foundations.
It grows in the kindness Performed only when watched.
In forgiveness offered As a leash.
In charity that demands applause.
In prayers spoken loudly To drown out conscience.
This poem shall drag such things into daylight.
Not because daylight heals, But because rot hates witnesses.
Listen...
Can you hear them?
The things moving in the walls of your head.
The unfinished conversations. The unsent letters. The screams wrapped tightly in politeness.
The versions of yourself You murdered for acceptance.
They are scratching now.
This poem hears them.
This poem shall not silence them.
It shall unlock the door.
And one by one They shall emerge.
The jealous one.
The coward.
The liar.
The hungry thing That smiled while another starved.
The beast that celebrated Another's downfall And called it justice.
The creature that watched suffering From a safe distance And mistook inaction for innocence.
They shall come forward.
And they shall wear your face.
...
This poem is an exorcism.
But not the kind found in holy books.
No.
The demons shall not leave.
You shall discover They memorized your heartbeat long ago.
They learned your voice.
Borrowed your hands.
Signed your signatures.
Laughed through your mouth.
And every monster cast out Will leave behind a cavity Shaped exactly like itself.
This poem shall leave you there...
Standing amid the ruins.
No angels.
No applause.
No miracle.
Only the terrible knowledge That beneath every mask Was another mask.
And beneath that one—
A wound.
And beneath the wound—
A door.
And behind the door...
Something still breathing.
Waiting.
For you To finally Look at it.
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©® Steward of Words