Pandora’s Cauldron

Encapsulate.
Bubbling up collected molecules
manifest fairy stories of creaky old goblins,
sorrowful witches, ancient deities
with too much to prove.
Effervescence, coated in
bitterroot for resilience.
Caught, an instant in amber,
latent pain layered in ages.
Slow, malignant, poison.  Corrosive
drip through epithelial walls.
They call, taunt yet again.
I pretend not to hear, not to feel,
not to want to believe.
They call with raucous derision:
“Dear Hope,” they spittle,
“a flying thing, a winged chariot
pulled by clever orphaned doves.”
Thirst pulls me to their malevolent well.
I dare not drink.  It will never kill me,
but torture, weak and broken.
I will never grow whole enough to
venture forward, to seek vigorous remedy.
Jagged mirrors cut skin, vital arteries.
Viscous blood held captive loses oxygen.
Blue and cold wintry depths.
Interred, hidden within this tumbling metal crucible.
Disturbed curses’ icy stinging deny the gift
of sleep.
.
.
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