Silent Scream
There is a silent scream that builds in center of grief.
A trembling shock that crescendos into rupture.
A cataclysm
Hollowed out, and overwhelmed by terror.
One Part horror. One Part Madness. One Part Eros.
It makes it’s way into the future, the past. Certainly the present.
It permeates everything.
Building, and building.
It isn’t a drunk, out of control, scream.
It is the most honest, sober, scream I’ve ever held.
-
At the center of my grief, is a nebula, birthing lunatic sensation.
The most primal, wild, feral, intense agitation.
It is savage. It is compassion.
It blows in like a storm. On ominous billowy clouds.
Gale force winds advance if sorrow is disavowed.
Changing day into night.
Rumbling the ground beneath my feet.
Rain in my eyes.
Thunder in my chest.
Energy needs to be dispersed.
Not always in a scream.
Sometimes it is a wicked howl.
Or slow a growling thief.
Grasping for relief.
This scream at the center…
It Undulates through me.
Earth shakes beneath me.
Blackness before me.
A Tear in the atmosphere.
Raining fiery drops of sun.
Trumpets signaling that it is fucking done.
Instead of run,
I can only face
apocalypse.
Instead of bury myself,
I must locate
release
For…
The howl at the center of grief.
The Rapture, The Rider.
And the Beast of Calvary.
Eros is an inherent part of grief. It arises from the vitality of Love we have for the one who has died.
