Mark 5.1-5

This is a bleeding,
infected, festering madness,
a fevered, hot howling darkness.
A haunted, hollowed house
torn and swept through
by cold, murmuring winds.
Chattering broken voices echoing
down the empty alleyways of the mind.
This is lost,
and pain,
and hell.

And then a burnt moment,
sizzling ozone like lighting,
rivening with a crack.
But also something more tender, easy
and gentle:
the cooling of the rain,
the tendrils of dawn
caressing the sky,
the kiss of a flower brushing your cheek.

This is a power and force
that overwhelms in the tenderest
loving touch.
A calamity
of quietness and rest,
bringing a revelation:

This is found,
this is peace,
this is coming home.



Note:
I've always wanted to write a poem about Jesus' exorcisms. This is the attempt.