The Sixth Day: Chioma

Who am I?

With what words do I describe myself with?

I am the artist of character; with what colours, paint myself?



For the horrors beheld.

For the scarred mind and hidden shame.

The loss of innocence.

The bitter childhood cynicism 

The mourning soul begging to be let back in into Nirvana.



For the rage that quake the limbs.

The throbbing headache; the voices screaming in the head.

The swallowed screams of fury; 

Glinting grin with gritting teeth.

The self loathing and eternal guilt.



For the envy, my sweet companion.

Wrapped in a shroud with tendrils of the poison ivy.

The mummification of greed.

Take. Take. Take.

Clawed hands, snatcher of possession.



For the calm; preternatural.

The stillness of the heart; the peace of the mind.



For goodness.

Like the Yin-Yang, even the black contains a white.

Little as it may be within.

The little glimmer of gold hidden in soot.


I am without name.

For names do me no justice.

I am simply Duality.

I am a contradiction.

I am a lost soul still seeking an answer to one question;


Who am I?


4 responses to “The Sixth Day: Chioma

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