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Birth of
the wrathful spirit
A dark mist gathers yonder,
Curlicues form, then it evanesces.
It gasps like a winter's breath;
Nebulae born; then it coalesces.
Fearful, it is a new form -
Swirling into being around a soul.
And the soul is old, yet fresh:
It takes on features, forms into a whole.
New eyes blink into the sun,
Thick fingers flex, and then curl to a fist
A foundry slap, into palm:
Innate fury births a yet darker mist.
The dark mist envelops all.
All things close are swamped; overwhelming rage,
It brings forth tears of anger,
Leaves bile; and the soul feels trapped in its cage.
The body and the soul rest,
Dreams now of the soul's next embodiment.
Tumbling tears leave their tracks,
And the body fades, until it is spent.
But the soul reawakens:
Floating again in the ether, adrift,
Seeking physicality,
But finding only schism; space; a rift.
The dream: or was it a dream?
The bodies that pass, forever, always,
Seem for eternity
To possess transience; an end of days.
There
was anger and hatred,
But like the brief and phthisic existence,
They passed and faded away,
To always recur, in all born systems.
And so the dark mist returns.
It seeks out places for incarnations,
And finds them, and loses them;
A cyclical existence. Impatience.
© 2004 Eline
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