It is a horror for the unborn
a horror for those whose ears are severed
for those whose genitals are sharp knives
a horror that resides in the un-lived,
those who are not afraid to die
but are afraid to live.
who knows such horror? I
I am shuddering under the weight
of the awakened flesh,
of the skeletal bone and marrow
that give rise to conscious grief.
Are you not? Have you not plumbed the depths?
Looked into your luminous night? And wept,
wept not for the darkness there
but wept for the light that begets the darkness?
It is I who feels unmade and malformed, embryonic
possibly forced out of the womb too soon
forced into an existence not yet ready.
is this perhaps the burden of cancer,
that ate at me during infancy?
That opened wounds too hideous
to close?
Stardust scattered into a body unwilling. That altered
chemicals and spoiled my blood. That grew fungus
where there was once brain matter on the wall.
It is a horror for the unborn
A horror for those whose ears severed
for those whose genitals are sharp knives.