Yours truly borrows a phrase
courtesy the great bard
also known as
William Shakespeare's Hamlet:
"For 'tis the sport ...
Hoist by one's own petard
meaning "victimized or hurt
by one's own scheme”.

The aforementioned excerpt
hopefully describes the fate
to befall president of Russia.

Nevertheless, unseen
talon sharp claws...
dig deep into mine
psyche soft underbelly
piercing bedrock of
core (****) being
akin to butter knife
slicing thru peanut
butter and jelly

unable to preserve
an iota of calm
while stuck in said
emotional jarring state,
which eruption of cataclysmic
agitation analogous to a bomb
going off inside my head,
where a mishmash
of frenzied discombobulated
brainstorming angst doth glom,

whereat the "little boy"
inside this man
called for his mom,
who when this aging
"baby boomer" chap
just a kid and experienced
devastating, jarring,
and paralyzing tom

malt chew hiss in dom
mitt able inexplicable fear,
though NO obvious
danger threatened, NOR
warning signaled "BEWARE,"
nonetheless adrenaline
coursed from head
to toe as if clear

and present harm
lurked quite near,
inducing a host of
physiological fallout symptoms
darkly freighting this
sole son with nightmarish scare,
whereat no escape,
nor exit no matter

how fast a sprinting tear
found me running
mile a minute only
to end up nowhere,
except smackdab right
in the same place
in relation to despair,
which translates to mean...

yours truly could not
run and hide,
as quickly made clear
to me then, and now,
though at present
scores years older, the balm
courtesy of prescription
medication popped inside

mouth from palm
olive smoothed hands,
as if this teetotaler
betook himself prom
men aiding albeit
with tumblerful of liquor
getting feigning noggin all a jam
aware that nothing amiss,

would be evident,
sans lower gastrointestinal exam,
nonetheless diet
restricted to graham
crackers and broth
distilled from ham
hock, once again thwarting
vegetarian ambitions ****!