A Fevered Chronic Plea

It was these reckless spins
that put him in a daze.
He could no more feel his eyes
then the reverberations
of his soul
pulsating,
devastating the rhythms
in his chest.

Scramble these eggs,
scribble these letters.
Catapult these fine lines
back into his sinuses,
making him whole,
for the urgency of this
impulsive moment.

Then the drop,
a legacy lost.
Friends fled,
contracts ended,
a wife in the distance.
Now in the deep end,
slapping at the rising waves,
a tidal he didn’t intend,
bur invited nonetheless.

Will he take that salve
of newfound clarity?
No pink clouds
but the dark plumes
he tried to outrun.

A hero never scares
of the eclipse,
instead staring at the ring,
burning the retinas
so that he can hear
the deafening silence,
the silence that screams,
“the soul knows more.”

As the mirror shatters
he welcomes the sting,
maybe the blast he needs,
a cold hard true hammer
into his ignored heart.
Hands clasped,
he cackles into the sweat
of a darker night,
“Sure God, sure.
I’m here now.”