Filter the rain from the mountaintops, where acidic droplets beat down, an acrid taste, a burning sensation of skin besieged by astringent vowels. This was not intended, though this was required, her purging, pairs of eager, shiny boots step forth, the small crimson soldiers attack, an internal awakening as hearts and minds ache, hers will visibly crack, it’s not only her sufferings that stun, it’s her experiences, too. Their blood lust for her mind, they wish to invade, pillage, and never give back, these blood-stained soldiers, miniature beings, worth nothing alone, yet together, they could save lives, if agreeable to this. Yet they press forth, through her skin they pierce, there’s nothing to do with permission here, her thoughts, they appropriate themselves at their will, care and concern are remiss. Staining upon her clothing, staining upon her skin, her purged catharsis, unwittingly melded, she flails, she falls, to their silent din. The vibrations are enough to cause her cacophony, she will lay here until dawn rises, quietly still, until it's the morning. © 2020 Lauren M. Hancock. All rights reserved. Image by 3321704 from Pixabay
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Lauren M. Hancock Poetry and Prose 
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