Nour AbouelSaad

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The Monster

The monster is behind closed doors,
Hiding under the bed,
At the end of the road,
Or the ceasing of light,
It is within a haunting memory,
The monster is in the circles you couldn't break,
In the bubbles you couldn't pop,
It is usually lurking,
After a stranded space of your mind,
Worshiping the oblivion which scares every cell of your being,
It is in the sentimental agony of being mundane,
Mortal,
Incapable of standing to time on a man-to- man fight,
Unable to iron back wrinkles with hope,
You know the monster's tricks,
But you drift away,
Just because,
You doubt,
He knows you too well, to feel the infuriating weakness that masks your aura,
He knows,
That if he hits now, you may not be able to fight back,
To defend yourself,
His whispers leave you moaning with pain,
You curse,
The universe for making you a slave,
Your habit of looking back,
For him
Or his many ghosts,
Who climb you up so you have to fall,
Who transcend in you fear,
So that you won't try,
So that you will choose the easiest option of letting go,
When maybe,
Just maybe,
Heaven and hell are interchangeable in life,
And what you lived thinking was made of fire,
Is made of smoke

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