Thoughts of ancient visions and past tribulations
leave uncovered scabs on my soul,
vulnerably marking it like Cain's.
Unknown forces move me to replay situations of what was and no longer is.
Ghosts,
pulsing through my coronaries,
leave me with a burning sensation
that isolates me in yesterday.
Catharsis is a joke.

Each hour or year I absorb my sins and the sins of the world.
They are beginning to clot,
And the tears do nothing but  inflame my eyes and my conscience.
Hark! conscience- swollen,
swollen like a cancerous infection of the mind
surging through my neurons,
covering them with concrete as it claims them.
There is no purging.

Quiet fears leap from my mind and
Trickle down my neck,
Clinging to hair follicles as they creep,
Slowly
     Tearing
At my focus.
I shiver.
With apprehension
Of a potentially empty tomorrow,
I tremble at the thought of satanic beings.
Catharsis is a sick joke.