A Modest Enemy

The argument of silence, absonant, hammers into the pliant mind it’s hard nails of craving.—a spirit thusly marred will yield to any prickle, every scant pressure to give in.—once the foreign implant is firmly riveted, a brain so jarred can no longer trust its levies to guard its thoughts against the inner, speechless “can’t”. Quietudes disturb the peace of silent folk, pounding its forceful will upon their backs. When, going unfulfilled, a lurching tic tickles the unstilled ego, its violent lashes thrash harsh whips in frequent attacks on the tender flesh of a crooked back.