9 Letters of Slavery

Distracted thoughts in the lucid field,
Typing blind.
Confused emotions whirling in the heart,
writing unseen or unheard.
A blankness where motivation should be,
My mind wore out by its monkeying,
climbing, in its own way, to higher and higher lowlimbs.
Concentration and temporary experience no matter.
Always returning, like from a drunken respite,
To this clawing contraction,
This cold-sore, painful, willful snake of a self,
Slithering through my blood and biology,
mind and memory.
Death to it. Death to the frozen parts of my being,
Encased in rigor mortis.
Like Frodo at Mt. Doom,
Unwilling to let go of the Ring of Power-self,
Where is the Gollum who will bite off my digit
And spare me the choice I must make?
To dive into the lava-life,
Evsicerating anything,
Any place for God or grace or love or mercy
Or freedom, or attainment or valor or courage
Or S-E-P-A-R-A-T-I-O-N.