Entirely overwhelmed, Barbara abruptly stood straight up and screamed out uncontrollably, repetitively, and hysterically. She shrieked out in a number of strident cries that caused the windowpane glass to quiver. She was having a full-blown nervous breakdown.
Barbara’s dark emotional sky lit up with her screams in a volley of shooting stars. Her frantic shrieks hurled across that dark canvas of her firmament, painting it with the long, luminous streaks of the colors of a fiery meteor shower.
Her soul’s heavens heard the screaming colors of blazing emerald terror, the roaring conflagration of crimson rage, the unheard sound of the smoldering ashes of denial, and the whispering hiss of the waning coals of dark hopelessness.
It is the poetry of primeval instincts, written in elegant, serpentine prose; a flowing cadence of words, from the barbed tip of your thorny quill; a quill immersed, and thereby baptized as it were, in the fateful inkwell; the quill’s tip wetted as it plunges into the blackest ink of the blood of blasphemy and taboo.
Your contemplations, uninhibited and shameless, pour out as unexpurgated thoughts, being expressed in verses of palpable poetry; and your prose is excruciatingly engraved into the parchment of my mind—written in that black ink of thantos; ink that is permanent, like the eternal stillness of death.
Poetry, perilous yet hypnotic, like a primordial, ritualistic, chant; your verses like the incantations of self-sacrificing natives; fearful and confused minds, all worshiping primeval instinct. Continue reading