Refuge

I walk through walls of hatred like they were fog banks,
smashing bars and barriers of iron and steel as if
they were but ribbons of smoke, skirting the edges
of one dimension and grasping the fringes of another.
If this were a dream, I’d be wealthy and powerful,
but in this reality I am just an avenger struggling
to cripple the demons who swallowed my wishes,
savoring those ephemeral chocolate treats and
padding truth with skillfully crafted lies.

I am the music, a loud and unruly cacophony of rich
noise smothering pain and ridicule beneath a blanket
of sound that mirrors the end of an era of pain so
menacing that even its mention evokes shudders and
screams among strong, muscular men with rapier teeth.
This monstrous struggle seethes with rancor so sharp
that razors flinch with the metallic equivalent of fear,
that ghastly echo of horror so profound that even
love scurries away in search of an impossible refuge.

About John Swinburn

"Love not what you are but what you may become."― Miguel de Cervantes
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