Ego is a substance
One can't have enough of
Fuel that feeds the fire
Of an unslakeable thirst,
Provoking the mellow waves
That mould your judgement.
It its the wet, sticky sudor
That trickles into the lashes of
Your eyes stinging,
Clouding your gossamer pupils.
A harsh saline solution
Of you, from you.
And further it trickles down
To the edges of your lips seeping
In to the tip of your tongue
Sterilizing it's delicate buds.
They can now only taste bitter.
At times, you wage a relentless war
Against some who strike back
With a reverberating slap
And others, who recoil from the slightest jab
Like the coy leaves of the touch-me-not.
There is no victory here, no honour.
Only the enchained
Devouring the enchained,
Slaves bound by slaves.
The wind carries an air-borne disease
That whispers songs of gallantry-
Of the Brute and the Bigot and the
Opportunist's loot, that teach
To only see one's self and to erase
The stray shadows invading
You tunnel vision.
The nugatory Other-
An ant, resolute, unsightly, persistent.
You feel an urge to have it
Crushed under your mighty boot.
The organised instinct
Of a trance-like state
To destroy and self-destruct.
Too much of a thing rarely does good.
This inherent narcotic stretches it's limbs
And with an insidious crawl,
Triggers your senses
With a scornful snigger, a snide remark.
When the scorching heat
Travels to the tip of your last nerve,
Every stagnant cell is ignited, impassioned
To combust and destroy.
And it reaches it's climax
In your desiccated nail beds, the tips of your fingers and toes.
The fire that feeds your eternal flame,
Unattended to consume you whole.
You are left alone to hoard the ashes.
You rise again like you always do,
Yours is the Phoenix's tragedy.
But your heart has forgotten it's design
And the rich red of your blood,
Now congealed, burnt umber.
Your throat is parched to form
A coherent sentence.
And mind, sunbaked to think
A coherent thought.