The Possession

I meant to write a passing thought,
A verse the dying day had brought.
But dusk grew thick with crawling dread,
And time itself began to shred.

A tremor licked along my wrist,
My fingers curled in iron twist.
The candle flared its final breath,
Its light gave way to silent death.

No voice announced what would descend,
But there it came, my marrow’s end.
It cracked my spine in serpent bends,
A curse no prayer nor saint defends.

It took me like a jilted bride,
With icy lips and hollow pride.
Its grip was foul, its rhythm dire,
A marionette lashed to a pyre.

My limbs obeyed no sacred rule,
I writhed, a damned and broken tool.
The silence screamed in sharpened shade,
As through my veins the darkness played.

I danced upon the floor in fits,
While Heaven wept and Hell threw spits.
Yet still the quill, with wicked glee,
Scrawled scripture born of blasphemy.

That thing rode lightning through my brain,
And wrote in ink composed of pain.
Each line it etched across the sheet
Bled like a hymn from cracked deceit.

The poem lay where I had bled,
Its verses pulsed like something fed.
I dared to read, though breath ran thin,
And felt it crawl beneath my skin:

“Through seizure’s gate, I split thy seam,
A priest to darkness, flame, and dream.
You sleep, I write, through bone and sigh.
I drink the stars behind your eye.”

I can’t recall these haunted rhymes,
Yet every curve, each mark is mine.
My soul’s a parchment, scorched and black…
And something wants to bring me back.

Reviews

[Milena Grubor]

Epilepsy is not merely a condition of the body, it is a war within the self. A relentless thief that robs memory, steals control, and blurs the line between who we are and what happens to us. It is a darkness that visits without warning, leaving scars no eye can see.

To live with epilepsy is to live with a ghost at the edges of every moment. A silent predator waiting to consume the light. Yet even in the shadow of loss, words remain. Fragments of a soul that refuses to be erased.