by Nick Gisburne
The certainty of stillness? Never. No,
Retreat, to rest the engines of my rage.
Their heat recedes, reluctant, sinking, slow,
But simmers, steaming, eager to engage.
In silence, at the centre of a storm,
The circle of psychosis closes in.
Rejecting what is safe, familiar, warm,
The fears, the phantoms, burrow through my skin.
I scratch at every irritant. I bleed.
I punish what was never truly there.
The rage returns, to swallow me, to feed,
A creature I created, in despair.
These moments of reflection fade, too fast,
Their precious pleasures powerless to last.
