Like Wildfire

Racing over beheaded stalks of wheat

There is not much nourishment
In stubble

Faster and faster
She races desperate to keep the flames going
Desperate to keep control

So, so scared that once the flames run out
There will be nothingness

And out of the nothing a shape will form
A shape so terrifying
So horrendous
So frightening
The only thing her rage will not burn

Out of the nothingness
Will rise
A mirror

Dead Eyes

Dead eyes,
Like a broken gate,
Are not the door to the soul anymore.

Dead eyes,
Make me wonder,
If the soul is dead, too?

Dead words,
Out of your mouth,
Full of contradictions and manipulation.

Dead words,
Entangle themselves,
In in fabrications of a sick mind.

Dead eyes,
Don’t blink,
Not even if you think you should bring on tears.

Dead eyes,
Even scarier,
In a face that doesn’t move on top a a rigid body.

Dead language,
Void of emotion,
Bar pure violence and hatred.

Dead language,
You know what you should say,
But make sure that it cannot be followed through.

Dead eyes,
Are frightening,
They give goosebumps to my bones,
The hair on my neck rises,
My stomach clenches,
Archaic scripts on my DNA wanting to grab my stone-edged-spear,
Adrenaline kicks my body into full blown fight mode.

Dead eyes,
No-one at home,
All that’s left is bile, anger, pain, loss.
There is no help for dead eyes.

Pebbles are Skittish

Male Victims of Domestic Abuse
The pebbles had rolled off the slopes.
They could not hold on any longer.
They were too light, too smooth, too innocent.
The tornado carried them away.
Male Victims of Domestic Abuse
Parts of his soul.
Parts of his heart.
Parts of him, carried away into the unknown.
Male Victims of Domestic Abuse
So the pebbles lived in the eye of the tornado.
Bouncing around the globe as she saw fit.
They didn’t know of the destruction.
There is peace in the eye of the tornado.
Only sometimes, when she moved too erratic,
Would the pebbles glimpse debris, vomit, spew, and racket.
Male Victims of Domestic Abuse
But they didn’t know what it meant.
When they saw bits of the debris.
They saw bits of the mountain.
They recognized the bits of the mountain.
Violently circling in the debris signature below.
So they came to associate the mountain with violence and rage.
Because that’s what they saw through the eye of the tornado.
Male Victims of Domestic Abuse
They could not hear the mountain over the noise of the tornado.
They could not see the mountain through the ball of vomit and bile.

The Rock

Male Victims of Domestic Abuse
He was a rock.
Strong, tall, rough, boisterous, as happy as rocks can be.
A mountain really, with smooth patches, softened by eons of experience,
With frost scars from a distant past.
‘He will last forever’, they said.
‘He is so strong. He is the powerful one.’
But they didn’t know.
Male Victims of Domestic Abuse
They didn’t know, that:
Every day, the rock was fighting.
They didn’t know, that:
She was the hurricane of insanity.
Screaming at him, tearing off parts of the solid facade.
She was the tornado of destruction.
He never knew when she would hit.
He never knew what ammunition she had picked up on her path of destruction.
They didn’t know, because air is invisible.
Male Victims of Domestic Abuse
They didn’t know that she would always find a way.
To force entry into the frost-scar.
To violently insert poisonous pellets of ice,
Which would break the frost-scars wide open.
Which had made his mountain-top crumble, and eroded his slopes.
Male Victims of Domestic Abuse
They didn’t know, that the hurricanes hatred was an obsession.
It was her sport, her past-time.
Because he was a rock. Because he was a mountain. So he could not move.
He could not defend himself.
He was the strong one, he was not permitted to rebuke.
So she was tantalizing, hunting, hurting, sometimes for a change, whisper warm spring winds. Soft air playing with the bleeding scars.
And he could not move.
Male Victims of Domestic Abuse
They didn’t know that after a couple of days of silence.
She could not bear it any longer and she would vomit her debris,
Violently, spew it all over him.
He could not even open an umbrella.
And still they didn’t know.
He had no bruises, the cuts invisible. The frost-scars, just frost scars.
But this was just the beginning…


Sekmeth or Lions don’t get Eaten

Lions don’t get eaten
But poisonous snakes can still kill them.
Their sharp tongues slash deeper wounds than teeth.
Their bite inflicting pain in the darkest corners of their soul.
And the mountain of power and agility grumbles.
Male Victims of Domestic Abuse
Hot sand scorching his nostrils.
Sun glare through thick eye lashes.
His mouth as dry as the dessert.
His tongue grates like sand on soft skin.
Male Victims of Domestic Abuse
A vision of Sekhmet appeared in the flares of heat.
Hovering over the burning sand before she sets her powerful feet,
gracefully into the smoldering grains. A sun crowning the warrioress’ head.
‘My son. I won’t see you defeated.’
Male Victims of Domestic Abuse
‘I bestow you the powers of a hunter.’
‘I bestow you the powers of a warrior.’
‘I bestow you the powers of love.’
‘I bestow you the powers of healing.’


Tired the lion rose from his poisonous slumber.
Dazed by light and heat, he pushed himself up.
The fur between his toes came into focus.
He rose his head and shook his mane.
Fine dust made him sneeze.

Now where was that snake?

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