There is an anarchist that lives inside me
They used to call her anxiety
Psychiatrists, psychologists and quacks
Whose plush clinics I used to visit
A convert visiting church on Sundays
Suspicious in his new found faith

Blue yellow white pills
They prescribed
All colors coalesced in a dark smudge
As they traversed the labyrinth of my mind

The anarchist, I found, was an acquaintance
The younger, more restless sister
of depression, my old friend
She grew up so fast I didn't realise when

Like a termite, she silently entered inside
the damp, wooden vault of my mind
One day, I heard her milling about
Self-appointed lady of the house

The vault, she had sealed
Its treasures concealed
Infested, they lay sparkless
As days turned to years
Inside the vault's darkness

Inside the vault
walls echoed loudly, day and night
Treasures shrank to a corner in the noise
Of work unfinished
Of words that came out all wrong
Of thought waves crashing into each other

One day, a silent savior arrived
Sent to rescue by the Christ
Gently, poetry tiptoed in the dark
Gradually, it revealed forgotten light

The dark vault revelled
Its treasures shone again
The anarchist's unruly head, now bare bone
At her feet, lifeless, her upturned throne

She still finds breath, at times
In the reignited embers of my mind
No longer the force she used to be
The flame of poetry burns bright
Scatters in the dark, its holy light

The anarchist's arrival was pre-ordained
Her ugly head will rise again,
I am all too aware
Poetry too, however,
Was on the cards

I watch their battle from a distance
No longer intrigued by the outcome
Hiding from the world
My poetry
My anarchy
Siamese twins
My destined progeny