Literature
Lose Control
The hinges of the ego groan—a rusted, weeping gate—
Against the heavy, rhythmic haul of vitriol and hate.
It is a salt-thick surge, a black and briney swell,
The tolling of a cracked and subterranean bell.
I am the architect of dikes that crumble into sand,
Cupping the furnace-breath with a scorched and open hand.
To hate is to swallow embers and pray the world will burn,
But the throat is char, the marrow dry, at every jagged turn.
The ghost of a fist. The echo of a scream.
The jagged glass geometry of a fractured, frantic dream.
Philosophy is a flimsy shroud against this primal ache,
How many logic-fences must a single spirit break?
Is the "Self" a steady captain, or a stowaway in chains,
While the red-hot iron of resentment courses through the veins?
I reach for the void—for the stillness of the stone—
But the blood-beat is a thunder that I cannot claim alone.
The rhythm is a stutter. A heartbeat skipped in fear.
As the boundaries of the "I" begin to fray and disappear.
So
![Explorer [commission]](https://images-wixmp-ed30a86b8c4ca887773594c2.wixmp.com/f/b3ef4d5f-3bac-4ee3-9de2-0689c965a7b7/df74pfe-8e95dfcd-7a43-44d5-9be0-47ff506de41f.png/v1/crop/w_92,h_92,x_24,y_0,scl_0.11004784688995,q_70,strp/explorer__commission__by_themefinland_df74pfe-92s.jpg?token=eyJ0eXAiOiJKV1QiLCJhbGciOiJIUzI1NiJ9.eyJzdWIiOiJ1cm46YXBwOjdlMGQxODg5ODIyNjQzNzNhNWYwZDQxNWVhMGQyNmUwIiwiaXNzIjoidXJuOmFwcDo3ZTBkMTg4OTgyMjY0MzczYTVmMGQ0MTVlYTBkMjZlMCIsIm9iaiI6W1t7ImhlaWdodCI6Ijw9ODM2IiwicGF0aCI6Ii9mL2IzZWY0ZDVmLTNiYWMtNGVlMy05ZGUyLTA2ODljOTY1YTdiNy9kZjc0cGZlLThlOTVkZmNkLTdhNDMtNDRkNS05YmUwLTQ3ZmY1MDZkZTQxZi5wbmciLCJ3aWR0aCI6Ijw9MTcwMCJ9XV0sImF1ZCI6WyJ1cm46c2VydmljZTppbWFnZS5vcGVyYXRpb25zIl19.9ricIAJWwtHcG6wxpgcePIMbZa0XFVtU17XPa8UYZWc)
