Each day; Tempest  

1
Each day
Pure contrition, ever so fluttering tribulation
Each single day
A populous sentence in a solitary tide of lament
Each fucking day!

I found a boiling desert where sand wailed
Endlessly of its inability to cool down as me
For every sunrise, featureless pain emerged
Some sinking deep into scornful abysses
Where pain marooned my being like volcanic eruptions
Exacerbating my insatiation by feeding me molten magma
Ever so presently.

“This suffering is my own”
I kept rummaging for the sign in stinking willows
Trying to find my feet to stand straight for a second
So I could adjust my sight to spot any hazy future
And of my inadequacies, I rue like an avalanche
Stepping inside,
Always inside like a falling meteor that has triggered
My lost, broken and disillusioned self
Into tiny fragments of unspeakable torment.

“My scars are my own”
I lyrically chorused a pleasurable refrain to accept infirmities
Savage constrictions that hammered me with indescribable melancholy.
Every single day I reproach myself of the whining of the gull of misfortune
Each single day, everywhere
But it is merely unsustainable to grow roses out of rocks
As incessant maelstroms paddle me like a useless vessel
To a disappearing and malady ridden island of bloodshot oppression
Before I tumble out like a chocking parasite.

My immorality has widened till I feel no guilt
Having successfully fought God time and again
In a graceless coup
Like a fucking visceral torque that churned my sail ever so immediate
That I exist in a junta prison of circumstance
Like a decree issued to incapacitate me always
Always the stupid decree!
If this is violent
Then my body, heart and soul is a battlefield
And I am a burdened warrior troubled with parallels of angst
Each day, parallels of angst!

There is solace somewhere beneath the tempest
A weak voice constantly whispers in my darkened world
Like a hideous bout of a charming disease
I want to fall sick with happiness
And rue on my inability to cure it
Each day, I am incapable of surviving a torturous existence
Even sadness stuns me in its inexplicable forms
Like misanthropic fungi
That ransacks my body as if I resemble a garbage.

Oh tempest, your terrific specter
Always your terrific specter
Has my knees pleading with the ground
To recover my knee-caps so I could walk a few steps
To understand if I exist in a desert or a muddy sea.
I know not even one solemn prayer
To open me up to a plague of insurrection
To momentarily chant an Amen to this deathlike trance
That is massacring my feeble humanity
With a Templar’s lustful sword
Seeping inside me like a ramshackling syringe inside my bones
Opening me apart in a sensual delight of shame and darkness
Where the only orgasm is stigmatized blood.
Always, competing tempests, each single day!

©   Eddy Ongili 2015

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