The Procession

He walks without looking back.
Behind him – a devilish procession
In the oppressive glimmer of memories
That rattle chains on the wrists of memory.

Regret holds a lantern
With the yellow fire of doubt,
It snatches at the path with spasms
That bend the spine of time.

Fear marches behind him –
Thin as a razor’s edge.
It whispers in his ear:
“You won’t manage to escape again.”

Anxieties lead a dance
On the nerve endings of the days.
Each one like a fly in a glass of blood.

Nightmares carry banners –
On them are faces that never were,
Hands reaching out from the void,
And a rage that does not explode – but rots.

Last of all comes Neurosis –
Crowned on a throne of mirrors,
That reflect you.
And each one is cracked.

This procession – is my nobility.
My court in the darkness.
My voices that fall silent
In the loudest scream.

But even they –
Demons with a velvet gait –
Step back a pace
When your word
Becomes the sole judge
Over my madness.