Quake

I am cold and alone
there is no warm fire waiting
no firefly glow or candled light
to guard against the creeping dark
It’s three in the morning when the monsters come
tearing me from sleep in shivering terror
ordeal by panic and glass eyed stare
no peaceful slumber for the damaged and defective
products of experience and events
My doctor tells me it’s trauma
old and now the new, violence both
visceral and mental, from those years ago
and from yesterday
I take the pills, and they help in small ways
but the wolves keep howling at the door
and they’re wailing your name
I do not know if I can keep them at bay
or when they will strip flesh from bone
and feast on my impermanent form
there are fragments of me already, steamed —
served up to those ravening beasts
you once cast them aside with your presence
then added your own, more vicious and cruel
in the silent cacophony of their hunt
Peace will not come in this chaos
no tranquillity in turbulent turmoil
I am unarmed against the violence
of the onslaught and the dread
and the horror closes in

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