Creative Corner: Poetry by Ritual Abuse Survivors	Ritual Abuse, Ritual Crime and Healing

Dark Sun Rising

      Twilight ...

         Blood-red sun sets as the child watches,

           watches the clouds bleed, reflecting his own wounds;

           each crimsoned cloud mirroring the slowly clotting streams

             of flesh and spirit, of mind and soul...

       The shadows darken as the blood,

         an eerie dance of slowly writhing, thickening, copper-scented streams

             echoing the clotting sky without -

                and the spiraling death within -

             and the night becomes absolute...

         absolute as the black despair of the boy-child sitting silently

             at the window, staring into the Abyss of eternity and death,

             of taunting spectres, desolation, and cold bitter winds

               echoing the supplications of dying, forgotten dreams...

       Apparitions swirl out of the depths,

         tormented nightmares bearing searing pain...

           angry maddened eyes driving iron-hard fists into a child's flesh,

           rending, tearing body and soul as blood and spirit stream

             silently, unheeded, wasted...

         Lust-hardened hands groping, invading, violating a child's body

             and mind, uncaring, cold, merciless satiation as the

               child's soul shrivels and despairs beneath the onslaught...

         Knives flashing cold and brilliant,

             artfully applied, cunningly, efficiently wielded to extract

               maximum pain with little damage to the child's flesh -

                 yet direful agony to the soul...

         Ropes binding, suffocating... the child's head held still,

             eyes forced open to see, to watch the sister, the

             brother, pay the price for the child's failure to obey...

               watching the fists pound, hands violate, knives pierce -

               and watching pain-filled haunted hollow eyes looking back,

                 crying why, why...

       Dawn comes...

         The boy-child's haunted, lifeless eyes look out the window

         into the morning mists...

             seeing not the birth of another day,

               but only the dawn of another cycle of despair, pain,

               suffering, and death...

         seeing only that final Abyss patiently, quietly waiting,

             waiting inexorably for the child's last tattered remnants of

               hope to flutter away, ashlike,

                  in the winds of ultimate despair...

       The sun rises...

         and the child surrenders to the Abyss,

               consumed by the Dark Sun rising...


         T. GhostWolf Davidson
         February 8th, 2001

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