Unable to breathe.
The wisdom of forefathers
repetitive in the mind,
break. repeat. break. 
repeat. There were 
no bread crumbs laid 
to find the way home,
this as a fact lends comfort
to the reasoning for acceptance.
Because the way home cannot be
remembered it will be ruled as a 
consequence non-existent.
It is a newborn forgetting 
the previous life it fought for.
The spirit interrupted in the prime
of its existence suffocates. 
It cannot breathe.
It is a hand clasped over
mouth and nostrils;
it is a forearm to the throat.
It is lost in the blackness of its own
void. It is uncertain and scared.
It acts out. It is unbalanced 
and extreme, its natural 
patterns punctuated. 
Pinned to the wall for
all to see, the point was
deep and nettled between
recognition and acknowledgment.
The ghost of denial resided. 
Sacrificing freedom for ascension 
like black on black netherlands
overripe with sewage and swamp
wishes it was nothing if not an
inconvenient stench, like burnt
bodies beneath gray skies,
raining like snowflakes 
on rigid ice rivers and solid
ice lakes. It wishes to will
itself into non-existence,
not understanding the 
suicide of the soul. 
Nevertheless, it has pledged
to honor all its exits, to recognize
the gift given remedied at times by
choices and the streams followed 
throughout the venture taken
to remain constant in the conscious mind
that created and rebuked all missions
and report. This world wind of
transformation, this dervish of 
Pandora, the blackened light outlined
in gold, replace the dominance of winter
in the soul. It seeks only to breathe 
easy once again, to remove the 
standing wall around its palace,
to unsheathe its stagnation 
and source energy to 
every artifact that
every needed to 
live. 

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“Black Orpheus: Black Choke” is written by Michael Aaron Casares. All rights reserved.