The Cure

Old, foul eyes

Just-

                glaring

As I stare back in horror,

at this ghastly man,

the soft, midsummer breeze, 

one which so effortlessly held me,

               Turned

decaying into a gust of malice, grasping at my throat

"Do not poison me."

I said to Him-

a gray-haired, withered man,

sad, with pain and suffering

engraved on His leather skin;

His pungent breath

corrupting the surrounding air

              Along side Him, a briefcase

              Inside it,

              peace,

              and He came for mine.

Bare:

Deep in the corners of my mind;

fearful of the world, 

my skin,

slowly melting away, dripping from my tender body, 

left me.

Perfectly alone,

with my sporadic thoughts-

Dancing

              to the music

                                  of madness and joy;

Singing 

            the songs

                            of serenity and sorrow,

glorifying their uniqueness,

pleading, crying for me to create

dissolving the world in front of my

strained eyes

into-

nothing 

In this endless non-existence, 

this saturated pool of potential,

is the battered mother of the endless worlds 

I create;

Mountains of Wonder, meticulously crafting each stone, 

Rivers of Grace, 

flowing with the most pristine of water, 

seeping into the soft ground around it, 

causing the earth to swell,

washing Him,

the bringer of Death

                                    away, 

leaving me 

and my peace, 

to create.