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The Wringer

The end is where it begins.

Not dissimilar to the cycle,

Known all too well as vicious.

With such violence it is no surprise,

That reprieve is deemed vital.

The chemicals surge and suppress,

Like the liquor of a serpent's fang.

Overwhelmed by the onset,

You flash forget the cure,

Then find a cruel reminder.

The cure is you.

A manifestation so dense,

The pressure beyond immense,

Reaching a point of excess.

A pouring release into a shattered glass,

To spill freely.

This is hardly discrete.

And harsh it may be,

The consequence of this very turmoil,

Which I impose on myself.

Do I?

Or is it borne upon me?

From this unrelenting existence,

That we call life.

Until death do us part they say,

Forever and a day do I not see it stray.

This potent chaotic toxin,

Stays with my every movement made.

Like plague on a ball and chain.

Rather than a choice or preference,

It was sheer fateful succession,

That this state of mind and body and soul be.

I did not wish for this nor beg,

Equally I failed to plea for a burden.

Without further ado,

May an attempt be lain,

To remedy the tragedy,

To declare monstrosity slain,

And remit fear that is close to few.

Feelings unchosen and thoughts unspoken,

A labyrinthian colossal mental maze.

May seeds be sewn for changes made,

For one to watch the others grown.

Along with myself.

And to my disdain,

A hopeful reversal sway,

I will redefine insanity's way.

Cure and change.

Completed in the dark unknown of 2016.

Published 2 February 2022.

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