Holy Anima Poem by Patrick Frazier

Evil attempts to mirror creation
In many illusive manifestations
His uncommon emotions circulate as often as his thoughts
The mind lending them images before sleep

His anima's hands cup a rainforest leaf
Pouring clear oil in his ear
A dark eyed agent of beauty calling
On a death bed of branches

She blesses his throat with candles
And he becomes a child king in the flames
Ordering men to construct millions of wooden chairs
For placing in one great twisted pile
These thrones of the poor

An unconscious tempest of traumatic emotion
A demon washed ashore in the visual cortex
Throwing up bloody brine
Becoming the remnants of a man
A blue fat corpse with deep purple orifices
Where all but his heart had been removed

She pours crude oil
Between the cracks of his fractured skull
Rubbing algae from his face
Soiling a funeral pall

Her eyes glow in a neon
A drugged out harlot's daze
She descends into the unending black of his eyes
And eats his heart like a candied apple
Pericardium the caramel

From deep inside its empty shell
It speaks from a fiery ring of hell:
"Lend me your voice
Let us share these unnatural machinations of his mind
Sit with me and watch the world turn without us"

She turns away from the cursed corpse
She is lightning in a catacomb of dead feelings
Running her hand across a wall of skulls
Then looking back at fleshed out faces

Her smoky sea green water
Is poured around the primal mind
"A radiance of what was living"
It seeps into his musculature
He twitches awake

The anima ascends a ladder
To where she will wait and pray for him
Her church made of bones.