The invisible scepter drew a bloodied line
in the sands of insanity,
prostrating fear,
crowning conviction,
to exhume all skeletons in an emptied closet
of cobwebs and coffins,
waiting for the madness to subside.
Masked neuroses rang redundant in isolation,
pleas for resuscitation unanswered,
paranoia pounding on a brain bullied,
beating against four walls,
closing in on a messianic clay pot of herbal brew,
as if it alone contained some organic magic,
that could reverse the insanity.
© Connie Song 2020. All Rights Reserved.
