Reflections in time- I

My breath is stuck in my chest.

A distant African drum beat my breath in,
Stuck,
frozen;
A piece of ice stuck in my hot throat
that's going dry.

When y0u feel the rug being pulled
from under your feet
in quakes of the solid ground,
you flail your arms
in hope to hold onto
something stationary.

A cry leaves your throat,
and you can't swallow
though you want to
and everything else dies down to a
hollow bump
till you can think of how to save yourself.

Anger from a loud person isn't surprising;
like silence from a quiet one
it's already lost its charm. An active volcano,
a steaming bowl of soup.
Anger from a quite person is something to be afraid of.
Over the hell fires rises a demon,
like Raganrok, Armagadon,
the dark of the night
has poached the sunlight.

In its captive nest, the light rots
to a beast with claws and stings.

I fear not the pain a slap might bring,
for it is a symbol of discipline.
But the same hand has the capacity to love
is the one that scares and causes wonder.

A child plays with a red balloon,
tossing it lightly above him
the air carrying it up and then letting it
descend into small grappling arms.
A grip too tight, Burst!
A grip too loose and it slips away.

The child knows no rules,
and it flings its innocence into
knowledge's way.
A bulldozer of authority and education
pulverized the spirit, if not
the happiness.

A web of lies can weave you a cloak that
glitters with gems of teary dew.
Each an Araneae , chewing and spitting
a bunch of thought.
Waiting upon a silly little fly to step into their intricate plans
and thus become
Food.

In the bleak twilight, It's inviting grace
asks you to parade into the dying light.

If all our sins were laid out for us alone to see
would we forgive ourselves?
Will the distant horizon
rise with a distant call of freedom?
Who can free us from our fate?

The somber bugle of the last moment,
the note linger like an after-taste.
Medicine. Cocaine.

Fate tied a red ribbon on your neck as she watched you sleep.
And as it comes undone,
the last little wisp of you life remains,
hanging onto a tendril of your hair,
as the world depends on this moment.