Dungeon of Mind





In mind’s dungeon no rest is found

Nothing satisfies dour assemblage…

Every facet of faces is sepia frown

Their words—constant clanging

Haranguing—are physical battery

…Reproof, rebukes.

There’s no such thing as quiet

Not for a moment, hour, day…

No peace exists; dimmest corner

Ripples reverberations…defeat

Shame, pound chronic migraine.

Specters of the dead, shadows of

People still living—somewhere—

Writhe, serpents in agony.

Tears don’t appease, nor repentant

Prayer, pleas for absolution.

Memory’s verbal rats gnaw feet…

Can’t sleep, on guard against

Something larger…toxic, toothier.

People who don’t believe Hell’s

A real place have yet to experience

Mental dungeon where everything

You ever feared, recall—each cruel

Betrayal, humiliation, shunning and

Mockery—whatever is horror, grief

Becomes bitter flame which burns

The flesh, sears tongue, blinds eye

Turns heart and soul to ash…

But leaves mind alert to suffer.

Those who escape discovered secret:

Dungeon keeper’s been around for

Eons, nothing new about him; he

Merely repeats what old voices speak

Copy/pastes stinging untruths…he’s

Lucifer, the Liar.

©Ennle Madresan, 2019 ~ All rights reserved.

Image: Pixabay.com

Untenable Questions

V.J.’s Weekly Challenge #39: Unanswerable

V.J. invites us to respond to her prompt “Unanswerable”.  Click the link above for more information.

I’m not bothered by what is

Unanswerable for some…such as, what

Follows when our life on Earth ends.

Faith satisfies me, removes all fear…

My true Home awaits in Heaven.

Faith doesn’t answer every question.

What wearies me, what I find

Unanswerable, is how people can do

Horrific, reprehensible evil to others…

In particular, to their own family, friends. 

Faith’s reply: “we live in Adam’s fallen world”.

It disgusts me that abusers offer their

Own past abuse as acceptable reason for

Scarring individuals known, or strangers.

Why do they deserve compassionate

Understanding…some special mercy?

Because my God metes out both mercy

And judgement…and, “His thoughts, ways

Are not as man’s”. (Isaiah 55:8)

I was abused, I didn’t become a serial killer

Or embark on path of any criminal activity.

What continues to stymie comprehension…

The aching unanswered questions in my life:

Why would my mother despise me?

How could my parents devalue me…

Accord me status of servant…rather than

Looking, and seeing a child…theirs…a gift?

I would have done anything for their

Love, but it did not exist.

The church teaches we must forgive

“Imperfect” parents because they have

Their own issues, baggage, wounds.

Response which embittered me: “they did

The best they knew how”.  Then, why

Wasn’t my best ever good enough for them?

Different standards, apparently.

I’m waiting to hear that I get a pass for

Remembering them with no affection.

For all of us, God’s grace requires not perfection.

©Ennle Madresan, 2019 ~ All rights reserved.

“For My thoughts are not your thoughts, Nor are your ways My ways,” declares the LORD. Isaiah 55:8  https://biblehub.com/isaiah/55-8.htm

Scapegoat’s Notes


Would that you might have

Deleted the day I was born

Before my eyes could focus

And see the truth in yours…

That you never loved me.

In every “love ya” printed on

A birthday note, I heard a liar

Making poor pretense of being Mom…

You were maternally corrupt

Smug in your superiority as the adult.

You called me stupid, naive, as though

Your bitter cynicism, disillusionment

Regret for irrevocable choices made

Were medals to be coveted…I think

You envied my chances not yet taken.

You mocked everything about me…

In particular, my hope that there

Was more ahead of me in life

Than the role of your scapegoat.

You despised me with a fire beyond

Passion’s cool describing and belief

By others…consummate actress

Outside our home, none of your peers

Would catch you in act of cruelty…nor

Dad, who kept you on delusive pedestal.

But there was a Witness…the One who matters.

I didn’t need to send God a memo

Sixty-some years later He’s still

Picking up the pieces of young soul

You shattered over and over…and

Pasting me together again and again.

©Ennle Madresan, 2019 ~ All rights reserved.

Image: Pixabay.com

Mental District


There’s a district in my mind

The mental “bad side of town”

Where I don’t willingly visit.

Faces, voices are cruel hypocrisy

Mask unpredictable violence…

No gates needed, for they’re as dogs

Baring serrated-blade teeth, snarling.

Now and then I inadvertently

Take a wrong turn…(seemingly

Innocuous triggers)…soon I’m

Besieged by raised eyebrows

Verbal fists, mocking smirks

Loud cursing stones hurled

Which send me running for my

Life and sanity, hard and fast

To some safer, albeit temporary

Place of respite.

Unfortunately, as seasons pass

More of “them” are moving into

The District…broadening property

Limits…encroaching on my

Gardens, fountains, my peace

Well-being, self-esteem. 

Dread, frightened thoughts scatter

Like a bag of lentils spilled.

Heart is leaden, not light and open.

Breaths stuttering, I fear I’ll find

No asylum, sanctuary of poetic

Words, psalms…no angel guardians.

©Ennle Madresan, 2019 ~ All rights reserved.

Image: Pixabay.com