I stand before a chasm, the
gateway to the underworld I just escaped, a pit I clawed my way out of minutes
or hours before.
A moment ago I was lying on solid ground, catching my ragged breath. Now, I peer into the portal like a looking glass, a mirror into madness where white grays to black, sanity to insane. If I stare too long, I’ll lose my balance. But how do I back away knowing one misstep will send me crashing through, the shards bleeding me like a sacrifice, my blood strengthening the demons who howl for my return?
Shades tear my clothes, nick my skin, alternately cajoling and threatening, their arguments finely honed knives slashing through my mind. Each demon is driven to the same purpose, my return to the world into which I was born, by force or by deceit. Like cats, they lick my wounds, feeding instead of cleansing with the agony of their tongues.
My ears are enraptured by the sirens' song calling me, promising this time I can play Odysseus, revealing glimpses of my glorious return, neglecting the decadal nature of the journey. My feet are rooted, paralyzed, unswaying, my body wiser than my heart or head, intent on its own survival.
So, I stare back down knowing if I slip beneath the brimstone shroud, its madness will consume me. Returning to that world would be like re-entering an inferno with no Eurydice to rescue, and no Virgil to guide me home.
A moment ago I was lying on solid ground, catching my ragged breath. Now, I peer into the portal like a looking glass, a mirror into madness where white grays to black, sanity to insane. If I stare too long, I’ll lose my balance. But how do I back away knowing one misstep will send me crashing through, the shards bleeding me like a sacrifice, my blood strengthening the demons who howl for my return?
Shades tear my clothes, nick my skin, alternately cajoling and threatening, their arguments finely honed knives slashing through my mind. Each demon is driven to the same purpose, my return to the world into which I was born, by force or by deceit. Like cats, they lick my wounds, feeding instead of cleansing with the agony of their tongues.
My ears are enraptured by the sirens' song calling me, promising this time I can play Odysseus, revealing glimpses of my glorious return, neglecting the decadal nature of the journey. My feet are rooted, paralyzed, unswaying, my body wiser than my heart or head, intent on its own survival.
So, I stare back down knowing if I slip beneath the brimstone shroud, its madness will consume me. Returning to that world would be like re-entering an inferno with no Eurydice to rescue, and no Virgil to guide me home.
