He would not strike his brother,
but the bar behind him meant nothing.
Clenched and thrust towards hot breath.
White knuckles break wood as they whistle past head,
splintering like a spider’s web.
Termites emerge from deep within,
jaws fit for red oak choke on blood splattered,
soaking to the core of this easterly wind
where soldiers settle debts with swords
and women listen to their men.
The fates, that night allowed him to avoid
an evening ending with a funeral bell’s ring.
The beautiful moon shining through the void
gave him a peace fit to ponder for years on end
but also a profound sadness in
knowing with this grave dishonor,
his brother would never come home again.
The bugs swarm and burrow deep
with the good brother’s blood on their teeth.
Crawling, manipulating energies,
animated by what was once.
A wood entombed Djinn
harnessing not the peace,
but the fury of the same fateful wind.
Possessing the disgraced, bequeathing purpose,
unholy strength in blood filled eyes.
A broken man, the perfect vessel for this demon’s rise,
finding vigor in angry desire,
consuming the family name in gorging fire
uncaged by misplaced rage, the flames.
Fanned by all that’s transpired.
Worming into the double helix of what’s yet to come,
gripping the blood yet to flow
until it’s undone and he does descend
with the souls of them all to exact his revenge.
This poem is meant to illustrate the voracious, all consuming disease of addiction.
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