Demons and Fireflies
Major depression crept in,
seeped through my defences like smoke,
the devil shimmying off my shoulder,
setting up a nest in my brain-
a puppeteer of despair,
fingers dancing on my strings,
turning thoughts to marionettes
that contort and squirm in shadows,
a cacophony of whispers,
a choir of chaos.
I had to confront those demons,
childhood phantoms pressed in the attic,
now bursting forth like weeds,
thick and thorny,
clawing for air,
their voices, echoes of innocence lost,
demanding an accounting -
a wildfire licks my skin.
Dismembered by the psychiatrist,
each session a surgical strike,
my thoughts on display
upon a cold, sterile table -
this, my autopsy,
a catalogue of fragmented dreams,
my heart caught in a jar,
tender pieces examined,
wondering how they fell apart.
Features of psychosis wrap around me,
a mantle sewn from a bunch of uncertainty,
trapped within this home,
a labyrinth of lost hope.
My organised mind,
once a temple of clarity,
now a broken shrine,
debris of sanity scattered
like confetti at a wake.
But now,
I’m facing truths,
telling truths,
my voice a tremor,
each syllable a battle cry,
the echoes of my past
still haunting the corridors.
The unnerving ghosts
linger like unwanted guests,
whispers slithering
through the cracks of my mind,
taunts cloaked in shadows,
doubt’s relentless parade.
Yet when the weight of the world
crushes my spirit,
when I crave a sliver of light,
the fireflies appear -
small sparks lighting up the dark,
their glow a resistance,
a dance of resilience against hopelessness,
a flicker of warmth in the cold -
a signal from my unresting mind,
reminding me that, amidst the ruins,
my heart can still flare up;
that beauty resides in the fractures
and hope, like fireflies,
lights the path home.
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