Bright-clad

A poem of soul cleansing.

Here it comes again.

The malevolent pain, uninvited.

Emerging from a feeble mind,

With no purpose.

A mind's first impulse:

To run away, or cry, or both.

A restless heart must realize,

More speculation, rises anticipation.

More anticipation, rises apprehension.

More apprehension, slays logic, promotes turmoil.

But a restless heart must inquire,

What is the goal, of this mind's chaotic choir?

With enough time, at the right pace,

The demons will perish.

But why watch as the god of time butchers them.

For enough spirit and fire, will end their malicious desire.

Those are the ways that a mind is ought to adopt,

On the way to becoming bright-clad.

Author's Note

Any feedback appreciated!