The Pulse

Does it happen to you?

Or is it just me

awoken,

alerted,

trapped

by this shadow that haunts me.

In moments of peace, it comes

sniffing my freedom, it comes

always hunting for prey.

Eyes, if they exist, glint with excitement.

A shard of flame brightens in the dark,

it approaches.

Slowly, biding its time

searching for the right moment.

With a bone-chilling creak, long fingers unfurl

they come closer and closer,

to me, unsuspecting of the darkness coming.

Then it hits me

it awakens something in me,

an ancient being made entirely by words.

The letters stir, the phrases mingle,

until I can no longer ignore it.

I try to fight

I close my eyes, I count to ten.

Deep breaths

in and out.

But it's like stopping the waves of the ocean

crashing in

controlled by the moon and it's light

never stopping.

It's always almost midnight when I cave in,

I let the words take me.

Like a dam breaking, like a bottle of ink spilling,

the words take over, touching my very soul

finding all my secrets

they cover me, like the warmth of an old blanket

down and up they go

into my mind and into my fingers.

The only way to release them,

to avoid harsh sleepless nights,

is to write.

My fingers reach for paper, book or pen

and I let the words flow uneven

strong and weak, fast and slow,

until a page is filled with my crooked writing.

I breath easier as if a great weight disappeared,

the words return to their cave

and it slinks back into the shadows,

its eyes holding the promise of a return.

I lay back in bed.

Reread the page, close my eyes, count to ten.

Deep breaths

in and out.

This time sleep comes, giving me a warm embrace.

Does it happen to you?

The pulse of words and waves,

bringing the smell of salt and age.

Forcing me to write

pages upon pages that form my bonfire heart.