Is often the prelude to unpleasantness
The kind that will lurch inside
Splashing about in some gut level wave of adrenaline
With a chaser of dread
A whirlpool feeling that might have kept our ancestors alive
Girded them against assault by flesh and blood monsters
But now squeezes the lungs so tight
Throttling the breath
Gyrating the mind…
The phrase itself is enough
And the message beyond is
Not likely even a talk
But more like a declaration with no real chance
For a Q and A…
And so is bad news in small doses a superior
End, a slow poison, the thousand cuts
Or is it better to stand with no way to brace against
The unsuspected blow
A wall of words slamming me?
I am underwater
And wishing for the fire next time.
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