The Scorpion

I. The scorpion in the reflection
of my time here
crawls in my eyes
and creates a veiled fear.

A caged image
of myself at sixteen.

The poison
tipped tongue full of spite
and
Venom,

lacking a world
view and a brain to support
an argument;

quilled,
spiked, barbed, bombastic
and
bitter;

sorry and angry, like I am
today, unwilling to
apologize; you understand.

Like Der Panther,
pacing in cramped circles,
locked behind a thousand
bars yet the world still
looks the same.

A morose image as
an adult; a will to power
as a youth, at no age.

It’s true that I spent
most of that time
alone; what has changed?

II. Truth is worse than
remembering;
it reminds me of why I
rattle and knock.

A.

The sun and shade feel
the same when all
emotions bleed as one.

B.

Spring and Winter
last the same amount
of time; I don’t try.
Each one has merit,
even when you are
locked inside; ad nauseam.

C.

Each season is hidden
behind longing and
fatigue, saturated
by brine, soaked in salt.

D.

Dirty fingernails and
cold dew, what more
is there? What is left?

E.

I will always be sixteen.

F.

I will always be angry
about concrete emotions
and sad rain.

a.
The world remains the same under
a desert blanket as it does covered
inside ice and cold; heart changes.

b.
I’ll look back with joy; even through ache.

III. I shall remember Rilke:

Only at times, the curtain of the pupils
lifts, quietly–. An image enters in,
rushes down through the tensed, arrested muscles,
plunges into the heart and is gone.

IV: Past is prologue.

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~ by Shawn M. Young on April 26, 2016.

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