A sick man stands before a statue
his cheeks bloom scarlet
his eyes hold fire
spittle coalesces on his lips
expelled by galled breath with his exhortations
he smolders with the heat of hate, of accusation
caught between a frozen apoplexy
and spastic agitation.
Yet his rage is esoteric
indictments wrought from abstruse logic
hallucinations of a vast conspiracy
formed from frenzy, and in turn, frenzy feeding.
Is this sickness? I think, rather, possession
diabolical, division is his aim
he wants no balm, only exorcism
of demons without or within
he cares not.
About the Author: Domenic Tassoni is an engineer and emerging writer. He tries to allow each vocation to influence the other. He has degrees from the University of Notre Dame and Georgia Tech. He was born and raised in metro Detroit and now lives in Milwaukee with his wife and daughter.