1900
My head spins like a Dreidel in December.
Searching for God's grace while laying in bed like an open casket.
Waiting for His resurrection like it's Easter Sunday.
At mercy to the Devil's work by Monday.
Looking to the skies for stars to shine through the moonlight.
The same way we search for rainbows after the storm.
I'm wandering lost in this cold Tundra.
Still waiting for the rainbow to form.
How ironic the world can be a reflection of Hell.
Sometimes scorching, blazing bearing temperatures unbearable.
Igniting my inner fire until unleashed with wicked eruptions setting ablaze everything in its path.
Only a cool substance can stop the reigning terror eluded.
Many of the cold-hearted inhabit this land.
I negate the temperatures with the implementation of structured diction.
My creation of unified sentences and jumbled up words to describe what cannot be spoken.
My lyrical enlightenment, my illumination to the darkness.
It is the smooth jazz when my heart beats to the rhythm of blues.
It is the declaratory elixir that serves as a potion to relieve my cursed pain.
It is my safe haven from the surrounding destruction.
It is the emancipation of my soul bounded by incarceration.
It is my fire to the blistering cold.
It is my shelter from this pyromaniac world in which I'm a resident.
It is the entrancing grace of Poetry.
