The Archetype

I am restrained,

by the Excruciating Ecstasy of Existence.

The archetype has seized me!

I am consumed by the phantom -esque gaping jaws of.... the anima.

But she is no mere object of.... helpless ideation.

Instead she is THE FIRE disguised as a spark to mere mortals.

Jung was right! The archetype is a force! A sheer force of... nature.

Restrained in that deathly stillness;

Staring out. I am quickly becoming....

pantamorph-isized.

NO! I AM PAN!

Painted with purple drunken-ness like the eloquent philosophers of old did once portray.

AND Just as in an exquisite massage, one is frozen to every caveat of caress? So am I.

And these lightning pangs of thunderous touch forever reverberate off the annals of my body's history,

as if erasing them by devouring all usual sense of touch with the fiercely sharpened teeth of unusual bliss,

untouched by any mediocre experience of the profane.

I am the dog become initiate.

I am the sheep reborn as wolf.

Happily trapped in this cryogenic seizure, I do arch and writhe,

But it is not within the realm of human control;

for I have let go of such human concepts.

I am the common man made wild!

Oh gods and stars of natural cosmic majesty... Hear me! I cry for you!

Sophia! Athena! Isis! Persephone! Artemis! Artifices! Only childish words roll and slide off my weary tongue, but you....

You are really here, with me always. In all ways.