The sound of distant thunder sends a shiver down the spine,
like shadows cast by a raven in the snow,
images linger never to be exiled from the mind, 
they haunt our every step, serenity we will never know, 
there is no salvation from this whipping post,
as mental scars are laid bare upon the fertile loam, 
in this, the first garden of good and evil.

These reluctant ghosts called memories 
rise up and mock our sensibilities,
no more plea bargains with misery 
as they steal from us our dignity,
for they are an enveloping darkness, 
the demons of our past revisited,
we cry out for relief, 
but only the fallen angel of eternal silences 
will answer our prayers.

No amount of therapy can counter act the pain,
no Jungian diagnosis will heal the wounds of anguish,
we hold tight to the trauma 
of yesterdays and keep silent in the pouring rain,
for in this shell we slowly rot and languish,
and entropy is the pathway we walk again and again.

I wish I could communicate with you further 
on the grief, the torment and the frustration,
the suffering from secrets never shared,

But Sanskrit is the only language that I remember now.