Untainted

Toiling alone, agoraphobic without the fear. This was the state of the neurosis not new-born but in rageful adolescence. Coiled and waiting.

Then, in middle night it formed. From what remnants of shadows whispered their ways through the walls. Perhaps not remnants but colonies; truthfully overrunning that space in time. An alarming fact but a calming effect it had for years.

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4 AM

A rhyme would burst or a dance of words, irresistible. Scribed in a trance, waiting for catharsis. And always, it came.

It was a relief, a nephilim waiting to catch me with grace and comfort. Who else could I utter my words to without the movement of my lips and the shutting of my thoughts; a distraction like none other. Who else would understand the vented bliss the dark silence could bring.

The rest of the world, finally silent.

The truth, finally in the air.

Written words, with their powers, allowed me to be a truth historian in the night, able to see without being shown. They allowed me to see the ugly and pure truths within me and so forth came the peaceful state after the desecration of deference. For that is the power of the night or desolate-set scribe: allowing for the connecting to truth without the offer to the world to taint it first.

Any hour, I can, call upon those specters again to see the air, untwisted