Monolith

The monolith stands imperiously deep inside,
tendrils deeply rooted and extending far into the core
and into peripheries. Sometimes obsidian-black obelisk,
sometimes billion-year moribund sun eclipsing everything.
In its vasculature, branching in itself fractally, flows
thick fluid of starless night that pollutes the estuaries of
thought and dream. The monolith is nourished when fear
is sown and reaped in fields of beleaguered heart.
Dynamic as life when life is beset by tides of turbulent sea
and lightning from an electrically painted sky—And the sky
always filled with swirling vortices of dark and sodden grey cloud.
The shadow of the monolith is the shadow of self-doubt,
and there in the suffocating shade light is starved and slain.
It speaks in infrasonic reverberations, in a language of silken darkness.
It suggests, it hints and implies, it weaves possibilities and futures—
The forks in the path, that lead back on themselves, are of the monolith's design.
The struggle against it is endless; it stains hands black and reveals
the voids and chasms that perforate even the most armoured mind.
Lightless and imposing stands the monolith deep at the centre;
solid, fluid and eternal, the monolith erected itself deep in the heart.

Ex Tempore LXXXIV
M.M. — 24-Aug-2014