The Tabernacle Syndrome

The tabernacle syndrome
tackles me linebacker like,
smashes my face with fists,
fights like a Boeing
ripping into my face.

The tabernacle syndrome
breeds guilt like lice,
claws outside my mind daily,
itches my scalp
like suppressed memory.

The tabernacle syndrome
slits family bonds wrist like,
down-the-street designs carving,
dividing and conquering
and placing in place.

The tabernacle syndrome
eats at you buffet like,
gouging and gorging and picking,
calling for seconds
holding a full plate.