The Wind's Earworm
Obsession is fear when fear itself becomes afraid. Carving the mind into a house that hordes rooms filled with hollow space. Where flat notes loop at a frantic pace. It can be an unanswered question; something left unsaid. Soft at first, its crawling in your head Like an Earworm tunnels through the dirt It is a hug that starts so comfortably, but quickly begins to hurt It gets in through the ear, and your head becomes its home Comforting at first, then you'll never be alone The scratching starts; it's gentle at first; you hardly notice Then it tears into your skin; burrowing deep! It feeds until it pops.
A gnawing in the ears that stays its welcome plus some more It crawled into the Wind one day as it happened upon the shore The Listener had arrived at last; the Wind had waited far too long By the time the Wind caught up, the Listener was gone. The Earworm saw him too; the one the wind could never hold and together they gave chase They failed again to get him; just beyond their grasp Now they know, that threads are not an easy catch For you cannot trap or keep him; he arrives when luck calls his name. The Wind will try to trick him but Echorin knows this game. The wind laments his loss today; The sky runs out of ink That's the ear worm’s price you pay For trying not to think
The Want Shaped
The Earworm is grown from the self.
It begins with repetition
Before it is deadly it is desire that learned
movement without permission. It is the same want,
the same surrender; the same avoidance,
the same lie. At first, you may say,
"It helps me, I won't cross the line."
Then secrecy comes next, dancing in with the shame
The first sign it's deepening, is when it practices your name
If not caught, if not controlled,
it will fester; it will grow. Until its an unfinished copy of your body,
One you don't know.
A chewed lip, hands repeating secrets in your sleep,
When the self has been edited by obsession,
it does not run or creep. It stays behind in your reflection,
leaving the shape of want in its place
Some appetites remain in blood, some demand their own space
🕯️⋆☽┄┄┄┄┄⋆°✦°⋆┄┄┄┄┄☾⋆🕯️
A person can survive the deepest grief, betrayals
and tragedy. All without sucuumbing to the compulsion
Yet, if the mind is set on the same ideation,
The flesh begins to act on it's devotion
The skin becomes a shrine before
the mouth forms a confession.
Though you bury it deep in the mind,
it is found wearing your expression
Do not hide this invasion in secret,
seek the river while you still have a choice
For what you bury in the dark may
crawl out with your face, speaking with your voice.