Roiling in my gut is a whirlwind,

A battle, a joust, a wrestle,

That is waged while

I am sleeping

or not.

It is born in my abdomen, my chi

Is troubled by the wind

Within that churns

My peace and

Won’t not.

At times I’m aware, at times un,

But the struggle between

My pain and my will still

Stubbornly persists,

Wavers not.

It moves, it climbs, it bounces

Off my innards; the dust

Of my dark flesh is

Stirred, helpless,

Settling not.

Hot, molten lava at a fast boil,

Tempered by the cool and

Calmness of reason,

A violent stalemate

Resting not.

Will reason triumph over pain,

Or suffering trump will?

Is the inside world

Meant to be

Static not?