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Magnetic Chaos
How do you build out of context?
A river surges upward, defying gravity,
twisting like a tendon torn from bone.
The sensation is an addict’s final inhale,
a stake driven clean through the heart.
What is the formula?
Am I equipped to satisfy the hunger
as the waves batter my mind’s foundation?
Do I summon a committee of ghosts—
past and present, whispering in fractured unison?
It’s like watching a film unwind backward,
a life undressing itself to the bone.
How do I hold it?
Do I use a mirror to bend the light,
to reflect a version of me that won’t dissolve.
The landscape is serene—
a portrait of untouched stillness,
where war has no fingerprints,
where silence doesn’t taste like surrender.
I must pin it down before it shatters,
before it fractures like ice dropping from a great height.
Before I blink and it’s gone—
swallowed by the magnetic chaos
that calls me home like a hymn I can’t unlearn.
Do I have the discipline?
Or will my voices wrestle me back into the storm,
their hands shaping the snowdrift before I can step free?
Do they grant me permission to leave,
or am I only ever allowed to stay?
Copyright ©
Aarron Tuckett
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