In A Manner of Speaking

There’s a Wrath that cannot be broken in her. It binds, it constricts, it shapes. It is nothing short of Hell. It is the taste of lingering in an expanse of history, strife in doubt, and twisted, tumultuous heartbreak.

In a manner of speaking, the Wrath comes to her as a wave, ebbing forward and back, but never gone. It comes to her as fire, cascading light into the night skies, but scorching the Earth, leaving nothing to grow. It comes to her in a voice echoing on even when only silence is about her. It comes to her in a brisk of the hand, a smell from the hall, a laugh she once knew.

In a manner of speaking, the Wrath paralyzes her to stone then snares. It captures her with chafing rope, blinds her without trust, and disarms her in the Battles of Her Mind. Her heart races in Olympic time, her breath is aflutter, her hands cannot point straight, and she is no longer.

In a manner of speaking, when the Wrath fades away, she tries to see. Bokeh lights, blaring horns, too many faces, with nowhere to go. No medicine, no sanctuary, no nurse at home.

In a manner of speaking, is the Wrath forever? Immortal, unceasing?

In a manner of speaking, is the Wrath real? True, tangible?

In a manner of speaking, is she the Wrath? Alive, breathing?