I COULD NEVER DO THAT...
- Mar 7
- 1 min read
By Rosa Christian
Do you ever ponder the evil things
we see on the tele, hear on the radio?
Recoil from the horror image they bring
declare, self-righteously, 'I could never do that.'?
Couldn't you? Are you really sure?
Look inside
au fond primitive instincts endure
foul things hide
on the haunted, oozing floor of a darkling well
we keep hid from luminance our own private hell.
Where animal essence still rules supreme
impulse cries,
red-hot, cruel intents slither and dream
multiply.
Do you dare peek where the stygian shadow-you dwells?
Do you pretend you don't have your own private hell?
We keep these creatures deep down, locked away.
I, and you
never free those beasts to see light of day
and anew,
to the world and ourselves a perfect image we sell,
never acknowledge what would send us straight to hell.
Life rocks us, knocks us, treats us unfairly
now and then,
out slithers something alien, silently
opens that pen
brings a sting, searing pain, an awful sulphur smell
darts, bites, burns then returns to its own private hell.
Tramp on it. Lock it down. Close that door.
With ardour
swear it will not escape, nevermore
try harder
to hide that other side, never admit, never tell
what we suffer to repress our own private hell.
We wonder then at those evil things
we see on the tele, hear on the radio.
Recoil from the horror image they bring
declare, self-righteously, 'I could never do that!'