Exorcism

Under my mind, somewhere between ginger muscles
and placating nerves, couched underneath the core
to my wavering faith, lies the essence
that is coveted delicately with tightly kept secrets;
in here lies the precarious Pandora's box,
sometimes enticing, sometimes undermining,
always a crap shoot:

folly,
sacrifice,
desecrated complexities.

I absorb cluttered chatter, and aspire to process
what has gritty substance, discerning what are merely meager
mirages scattered in dusty memories, amassed and preserved,
like a cellar of exquisite nectar, whites and reds;
a petulant portion of these palpable perceptions
are felicitous, but many leave auspicious holes,
and cauterized imprints, that foolishly embed
tremulous truths, tether the spine,
and relinquish forged pride.

I uncoil, just a tad -- "there, there" -- allow cagey emotions
to perilously unravel just a pinch, and observe
my body from atop, peering like a falcon,
as I tremble, and convulse, uninhibitedly,
so sure that damnation will sever my unworthy soul,
while the fearless floodgates to all the acrimony and vexation
pour like a halcyon honey from a hustling hive
from my baby blues, scratching my flushed scarlet cheeks
stretching into dormant tissue.

I open my ceruleans, blink; I ponder, am I still here?
Has survival granted me a second opportunity to flourish,
spread my osprey's wings, and fly, soar, ascend
above the clouds to a safe haven secured just for me:

gratitude,
privilege,
indebtedness.

I seal my eyes, remember the altering transformation,
experience the raw emotion in its purest form,
and shudder, just shudder. I have been granted
one more flight, but rusty redemption has its perils as well.
Atonement has its own malevolence, and I attentively
acquiesce, and acknowledge its virile virtue.