Enema

The Enema

Not for the faint of heart, nor the prudish soul, But a quiet ritual, reaching deep, Where warm solution, gravity-controlled, Begin the slow, internal sweep.

No harsh chemicals, just water, tepid, mild, To loosen what time and stress have bound, A gentle flood, beguiled and beguiled, Where tension used to writhe and wound.

It flows where sunlight ne'er has pierced, A private tide, internal, deep, Dislodging stubbornness, long-rehearsed, While restless spirits find their sleep.

The sensation? Strange, yet not unkind— A pressure building, soft and insistent, Then release, a wave designed To leave the inner landscape lenient.

No fanfare, no triumphant shout, Just quietude where discord lay, A cleansed passage, free from doubt, The body's own, relieved array.

So though the act may raise a brow, Or prompt a nervous, fleeting grin, Know this: the cleansing matters now, And peace can start from deep within.