The injured PSI warrior, A’pollus

The injured PSI warrior, A’pollus
was reclaimed from the lip of the Abyss
but none among the healers can touch his wounds

And so he has come to reside
in the Halls of Remembering and Forgetting
The Catacombs, Archive of our civilization

He is fetal curled amid the racks and casques
Ornate treasure chests and schema scrolls
Curled amid geologic layers of parchment integument
A frail hero buried in history

Fear not
He is still numbered among the living
Though given the suffering of his Living Hell
One might wonder at the intent
Of those who would call such continuance a blessing
See he twitches
And given the nature of his nightmares
Were better he snap erect
and scream till all wind leaves his lungs
For how can there be sense in this kind of anguish

Pain
For all its discussion
Tells the body to avoid something
Hit your hand
Hurt your hand
Don’t hit your hand again . . .
Simple

But there is pain
Pain that makes no sense
Unrelenting
Horrible
Gut wrenching
Everlasting PAIN

And you have to ask
Where is the wisdom in this?

He turns
Speaks a verse

Published by

Chyfrin the Celtic poet

Artist, Poet, Electrical/Biomedical Engineer, Actor, Playwright, Set construction, Educator, Lover of womankind and single malt scotch

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