like the visible vapour from an arabians incense pot.
As if it never existed…
A vacuum is born.
Who knew a vacuum could possess a mind of its own?
It gets up,
without warning
It stings…
Worse than that of the honey maker!
Astonishing how even the absence of that vacuum also stings.
But the birthing and existence of the vacuum enrages the sting.
like an angered stallion,
It gallops straight to the pharynx and fills it with the force of backwater from the heart.
Strangles the larynx till words escape as if tied to an anvil.
Blinds the eyes with flashbacks.
Recollections of bliss that you can’t unsee or unlive.
No power to even attempt.
All that’s left to do is drown in a tub of heart water.
Permitting bubbles formed from faith in the constantly mentioned healing power of many moons, to drown you and soothe that ugly hole.
knowing deep within that only one possesses that soothing power.


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