After the Exodus

Silence has fallen across my lips.
The throat chakra is clogged with bloody membranes,
unheard sobs, meticulous giggles, and years of truth.
It hurts to not know what to say.
I am unable to metabolize,
deer-eyed and frozen;
I am in constant need of shock therapy.

There’s a heaviness weighing down my eye sockets.
A mini flood swells and subsides:
the concurrent ocean of mystery.
I can’t pinpoint the crux,
I forgot how to navigate West,
so I am adrift,
sober and awake,
feared and bemused,
knowing too much,
remembering too little.

I guess there was no use running away.
The swirl of dust devils haunts your dreams,
piling on top of one another,
until you are suddenly pressured to be
someone completely different.

I pray for my voice to return.
For the sweet ego to give logic
to the madness,
for the jargon to envelope me
like a blanket of nirvana,
for the ridiculousness of analytical
understanding of something
that so clearly cannot be understood.

For then, only then,
can I finally forgive us all.


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