With my arms behind my back,
bound with past beliefs and moral
I took pride in this mold of duty.
Safely hugged by those chains,
my limitation of movement cradles me.
In the arms of my petrified hell,
my silence is the disturbed mirror image.
If it wasn’t for the hurt,
I’d mistake it for peace.
A low rumbling is the answer
to the hardened question mark;
a guttural growl of psychic tectonics
shifting masses still and dead
to the sacred fire, to be refined
to be cleansed and recycled.
