A Raging Storm of Words

I am the one who weeps; I paint the pictures of sorrows into murals, I vandalize the structures of sadness.

I am the poet, a dreamer of dreams, a speaker for the spirits raging to be heard,

A speaker for the cries and crimes ringing in the night, the voice of the legion dreams.

I am the far wanderer of the mind, a searcher in the darkness, a caresser of shadows.

I climb the smoking peaks of holy mountains of dreams to see what lies beyond;

I am the barbaric despoiler of all boundaries, the assassin of every asymmetry.

Within the grip of my words I draw pitched battles with the armies of suppressive silence;

I cast my words into the night as arrows, as hail, as hot lightnings and fire.

I sing the songs of the groaning earth; I cry the words of the embattled spirits,

Rung like blood from the destitute hearts, smoking in the glowing braziers of pain.

Such a sweet and terrible incense I send twisting and writhing from the altar,

Such reckless gods to work such wicked and desperate annihilations.

I lay waste the temples of pretense; I am a brigand to blind hypocrisy.

Wake up your spirits and shake off the dust from your hearts and minds,

Forsake the shadows of these sanctuaries of such bitter darkness.

Step into the sunlight and remove every blindfold, let your eyes burn

And catch fire to your hearts; cast away these crutches and every staff you cling to.

You are not so old that you cannot yet dance upon the grass in the soles of your feet

As you once did as children, young and strong and full of the lust of living.

How long since you lay headlong upon the damp earth and cool grass?

How long since you looked upon the stars or into the cavernous depths of your heart?

Tell me if anything good yet grows there; is there any green thing left in you

Or does winter there reign perpetual over kingdoms of ice and snow and stones?

Forsake the things which keep you old and shriveled in your heart, crippled and weak.

Let go of all hands that hold you feeble; unbend your back and straighten your spirit.

Walk tall and strong, with eyes and hearts open, devouring the world before you hungrily.

As for me, I add my own blood to the fire, that my smoke swirls upward with yours.

I walk the dreams and the nightmares and echo back the reverberations of darkness,

A dream stretched tight across the consciousness of night, reflecting the deepest pulse of the earth,

Reflecting the resonant vibrations of sorrows, passions, and madness,

Until the sound of it, seeping in through the ears, penetrates the waking mind.

I will not stop until I have driven my words to the hilt in the hearts of those that yet

Hate your dreaming, despise your reaching through the bars and clawing at the lids of coffins.

They would much rather you went on quietly, sleeping beside them in your tombs,

Making no noise, asking no questions, dreaming only the acceptable dreams,

But I mean to make such a pulsing clamor, such a raging storm of words,

That none who dreamt of waking, none who dreamt of rising will ever be dismayed.

For you and for me I speak the words that all others may fear to whisper;

I cry, with vibrant paints of words, the visions that stalk the dreams of night.

I sing the soft, smooth sound of your spirits, sailing the frayed edges of waves of clouds,

Until the hard stones of your sepulchers split and crack, your chrysalis standing open,

And the world will be astonished at what emerges to stretch its wings across the darkness.

Eric M. Petit