Survival

We are driven by survival and eaten up by the spectre of imagined
abnormality, somehow mutated, changed, this inner being, not as we expect.
Not always fitting to the niceties we would have ourselves believe
we are, or aught to be. The thought we know leads to atrocity.
Thus in horror we first encounter the shrouded arms, groping from the darkness,
wherin lies the beast.
Yet still only partly seen, but felt, like unvomited poison.

This beast of which I speak, no outward phantom driven in by external
force, but inherent. And yet again, no parasite intent to feed, but symbiote,
perhaps. For this beast within, also, is child of the Mother of light and darkness,
and is kindred, neither male nor female. We are twins of the Mother of Shadows.
Pray she takes hand with her children; and make no stirring, lest the beast awake.

What have I been, but claw and tooth to my sibling whom I aroused and
enraged by my constant discontent and clamour. Never letting peace,
often scant, and courting every further jibe with which to nurse to anger,
this inner beast, and holding forth, that this poisonous turn of thought,
is the answer.

We little see the follies of this beast, and coming to some recognition,
seeing the footsteps in the snow, circular, in which we tread,
wondering who has gone before, 'not me'.
Then as the realisation dawns we are repelled, 'not me'.
Easier to close the eyes, deny this awful inner kinship, and turn again.

Or sudden can the beast emerge, a word cast wrong, or deed or slight,
can serve to rouse, then as the thing would tantrum take, needs must.

A greater spirit than our own devised this 'hellish' combination,
for a reason. Face this beast, for face we must and truce devise,
or be forever broken.

Harm no-one, do what ye will. Let it be.