lost

7. Caesura of the Self

Close-up photograph of deep red unwravelled thread emphasising themes of writing and finality in the poem Caesura of the Self.

 The doors of hope swing shut with hollow clang. The safety net unravels, a taunting haunt. Photo by Nastia Petruk on Unsplash

 

Caesura of the self


"Aut Caesar aut nihil."
– Cesare Borgia


Fractal Identity

 

I am - and yet - I am not what I was,

A fractal, fragmented, a shattered self.
The mirror mocks, the mind's a broken glass,
A labyrinth where clarity's exiled to stealth.
Adrift on shifting tides, I try to steer-
The needle spins, true north is nowhere near.

 

 

 

Vertigo of Existence

 

The vertigo of being - vicious, vast,

A vortex, violent, void of clemency.
I reel, unmoored from meaning, from the mast
Of sanity, cast into a caustic sea.
No harbour here, no beacon in the gale,
Just fog and fathoms, far from firm avail.


 

Echoes of Abandonment

 

The ears of power are deaf to my desire,

My words dissolve like whispers in the wind.
Indifference is an ice that does not tire,
Dismissal is a dagger in the mind.
I rail against the silence, but in vain-
The walls absorb my voice like thirsty rain.


 

The Weight of Documentation

 

A mountain built of papers, proofs and pleas,

Looms monumental, yet unread, unseen.
Like autumn leaves, they drift on careless breeze,
A rustling testament to might-have-beens.
The truth lies buried deep within the stack,
A muted cry, a fading almanac.

 

 

 

Economic Asphyxiation

 

The coffers clang with coin, a mocking choir,

While hunger prowls, a panther in the night.
The price of survival climbs forever higher,
A Sisyphean summit, out of sight.
The ledgers bleed with black and bitter ink,
As bank accounts subside, as spirits sink.


 

The Narrowing of Options


The avenues of aid grow lean and gaunt,

The doors of hope swing shut with hollow clang.
The safety net unravels, a taunting haunt,
A promise proved as empty as a pang.
Each path leads to a precipice, a brink,
Where angels fear the tread, and devils slink.



 

The Final Calculation

 

And so - the scales are balanced - tipped by dread,
The equation solved - by subtraction's art.
If life's a ledger - filled with entries red,
Then death's a bottom line - a fitting chart.
A final sum - a terminal transaction,
A period placed - by gravity's exaction.

 

 

 

Mercy in the Maelstrom


Release becomes the ray amidst the storm,

A beacon in the bleakness, blazing bright.
In abnegation's arms, a strange new form
Of clemency uncloaks its contours slight.
To cease upon the midnight, with no pain-
Seems softer than the unforgiving rain.

 

Quietus and Quittance

 

So let this be the denouement, the bow,

The velvet veil that shrouds the weary brow.
A quietus from the quest, the ceaseless how,
An absolution from the binding vow.
In silence, there's a song of soothing stealth-
The lullaby of nothingness and self

 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

 

With an epigraph invoking an all-or-nothing resolve, this poem delves into the intellectual and emotional calculus of a mind under siege. It’s an intense, unflinching look at the narrowing of options when existence itself feels like a “terminal transaction.”

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Silent Night, Shattered Sight (Neurodivergent Nightmare)

 

 

Amidst the onslaught of festive frenzy,
Neurodivergent minds reel a tempest here to sear.
Senses assaulted, relentlessly vexed,
Christmas chaos leaves us perplexed.


Masking's breaking, taking weight, a suffocating shroud,
Authenticity lost in the neurotypical crowd.
ADHD autism's ache, an adult's disgrace,
So, invisible struggles are present in this merry place.


Pain's persistent, pounding refrain, an endless score,
Fibromyalgia's claws, forever tore.
Spine curved like a question mark,
Vertigo's dance, a dizzying arc.


Poverty's clutch cuts deep, leave plans in disarray,
Opportunities vanish, like mist in the day.
Isolation, depression, chronic cursed alone,
In a world where bonds stretch, then are gone.


Trauma mars, leaves scars, rape's brutal seal,
cPTSD's tortures - terrors forever real.
Triggers flashbacks, a minefield within,
Clock tick-tocks, the night's wearing thin.


Passivity creeps in just like a mischievous elf,
A sinister spirit keeps us captive, steals our self.
Painfully forcing out a cry, on deaf ears they fall,
"You knew they wouldn't", it sneers, "more unanswered calls".


In despair's abyss, hope's flicker dies,
As the world rejoices, behind a joyful disguise.
Countless unseen battles and unheard cries,
Anguish, desperation, pain, do naked eyes lie?


To those who feign concern, a warning rings clear,
Your platitudes and neglect, a deafening sneer.
For in the depths of despair, a reckoning brews,
When the desperate depart, with nothing to lose.


In the sombre, silent night, when alienation reigns,
The psyche buckles, under the weight of its chains.
Remember, you who turned a blind eye,
The blood on your hands as the outcast dies.


So let the silence shatter, let the truth be known,
For the neglected and broken, forever alone.
May their memory haunt, may their absence resound,
A damning indictment, of the help never found.


Silently in the night, isolation's doom looms,
For those left to rot, in desolation's tombs.
A scourge on false kindness, on empathy's dearth,
As the forgotten depart, from this merciless Earth.


A warning to those who still pretend to care,
Of the anguish hidden, behind festive despair's lair.
Family friends forsaken in desolation's night,
Cast aside, ignored as time ticks on, year's plight.


In the silent night, a dirge ascends,
For those struggling, lost at the year's end.
Society's apathy, an unpalatable bitter pill,
Washed down with tears, we fade away against our will.


Let the silence break; let the truth be told,
Of the torment endured, the agony untold.
In summer's sweat, a reckoning should rise,
Power imbalances now, no escape our fate's demise.


May our ghosts haunt the whole season bright,
Reminding us of those for whom this time's a blight.
In the season's glare, coalescing shadows reign,
Numerous reasons, curses feeding this pain.


A moment of stillness, amidst the hurricane,
A flicker of self, in the endless pain.
Battered and bruised, yet still we stand,
In defiance of a world, that refuses to understand.


Whilst it is true, many times I have tried,
But for my animals, it is on me that they rely.
As night follows day and day follows night,
Dark forces frantically fighting, stealing my fight.


Hope's a medicine, both a curse and a sure cure,
Healing if repeatedly given - the source pure.
Decidedly dangerous, deadly, dangled as a prize,
Breaking faith's wraith, soon you and society they'll despise.


A pox on ableism, on empathy's lack,
As we vanish slowly, our lives off-track.
In the silent night, our requiem it plays,
The forgotten ones, left on birthdays and holidays.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Like all entries in this anthology - this is raw, unflinching (oddly still with residual masking) and has the potential to offend or upset - this is my truth. So take this as another CW. 

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