Growing Jung in middle-age

Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray my devils do not steep.

If I whimper before I wake, it signals brutes are planting stakes.

Age wakens me in grey dawn hours and dread of shadows, overpowers.

The chroma of my day unleashed, ogres bear Fauvist pastiche.

Crippled I rise, to start the day, sluggish, feeling, shades of prey.

In the mirror I dare not stare, in case I catch, self-loathing there,

hugging tight her crippling twin, self-fear and her, my day begins!

Tumid lids face silver plate, bringing forthwith, my tousled state.

And peering now, at my brow hair, noting baldness, settling there,

mourning arches grown so thin; those brunette hairs now straggle my chin.

My eyes are bleary, bloodshot red, with milky irises, molten lead.

Removing glasses so at least, my failing eyes, can blur that beast.

Glazed scumble smears, my sanity, scorned, whipped and cursed, by Vanity.

She smirks at me, when getting dressed, and notes my brows follow my breasts.

Deftly enrobed, in violet hues, her gibes and putdowns, slather me bruised.

Who sent her here, on me to stalk, discharging rounds, of cruel self-talk?

Ruthless umbra, grips at my core, encircling my space, beyond the door.

I try to force, my mood to shift, by meditating, in the lift,

inhaling sage and calming green, exhaling vivid, tints of mean.

Struggle I do, to stay complete, white mantle pallor, of self-defeat.

Then downstairs in, sunlit foyer, salutations from, Paranoia.

Approaching swiftly all around, her tentacles bleeding, from the ground.

She’ll push and nudge, on my commute, until I’m at odds, in self-dispute.

Lawless and pink, dressed like a boy, or maybe she’s puce, masking a ploy?

My office brings the daily farce: a scoundrel roll-call, perfect “full class”.

Today no shame-scab stays unpicked, DIY villains, sure have me licked.

Trained compadres, vibrant to march: titian banners and iodine starch.

Glance at my day, black ink on cream, while blankly fuelling, my brain-fog scream.

Taking the floor, I am in hell, the imposter sighs “this won’t go well,

they see you’re not, quite up to “it”, not long now ‘til , you get the flick.”

Velvet and silk, emerald cloak, houses the haunting, bullying bloke.

Why does he loom, this avid sleuth, to hunt and expose, my hidden truth?

Enter the dragon, drawing her breath, fanning derision, nagging to death:

“What did you do? Prepare your pall, to shade your foibles and ghastly drawl.”

Crowned with barbs and vermillion scales, she glints as she sears, my bare entrails.

Why enkindle, my every flaw, char self-esteem, with scarlet roars?

Skills and youth are what it’s about, not wisdom nor age, taunts snide self-doubt.

“That’s it for you, you failed this work”, Pathos and Penthos, my haze that lurks.

Qualm is veiled in amber and blue, and ever appears, as right on cue.

Why so shrouded, hiding her face, quietly steering, my fall from grace?

Descending now, Shame and Money, “who didn’t save when things were sunny?”

“Your job’s not safe” the creature scoffs, “Look at your debts you’ll not pay them off.”

This demon dazzles, with golden aura, gilding knick-knacks, for Pandora.

Why bring me this, metallic jeer, invoking wretched, disabling fear?

He frees my rogue, born of regret, one vile swine I want to forget:

“Who didn’t hone when they had time? Ooh such a shame now, you’re past your prime.”

Regret’s rust brown, her voice is hoarse, commands you listen and beg remorse.

Her words abrade, like hessian cloth, why am I your light, and you my moth?

End of day, the peak hour session, my companion dog, herald’s depression.

“You’re falling short and shooting long, just face it now, you don’t belong.”

My canine fiend, as black as night, his presence stifling, in bark and bite.

How can he be, human’s best friend, as he is spruiking, one’s life to end?

Back in my rooms with walls deep bone, my rascals and me, create our home.

While doing squats, to help lose weight, Ms Glutton seizes, leftover cake.

Peach tint paisley, ruffles to boot, her deadly tincture is love of food.

She stains me with, this famished streak, where junk food rules, and grit is weak.

My stark bed notes, with love I’m lame. Self-worth is tarnished, stippled with shame:

“It’s your sole fault, you’re no-one’s prize, aging, ugly, and look at those thighs!”

Jaundice serpent condemns my time, stamps me repulsive: what was my crime?

Let me behead, that saffron snake, who slithers amongst, my perse heartache.

Through argent glass, I seek a cure, face-up my demons, render them pure.

Although I know, these shades are mine, they’re in cahoots with, the March of Time.

A flushed sanguine thought, slowly ascends, to embrace them all, as shady friends.

Invite them all, join me for tea, then imbibe their hues, to revamp me.

The greens and the silver and various blues, the pinks, reds and browns and confusing puce,

the lustres and shimmers of gold and pearl, the black, yellow and grey, to make up this girl.

Scumbling and stippling and tint running rife, creating a portrait of me in mid-life.

My ambit of shadows with luminous voice, the irony I bear, is carried by choice.

As I slip under, my bright aqua spread, the indigo sleep-state invades my head.

The gouache and fabric, of my regular day, will blend and suffuse, as I slip away.

Once more, now I lay me, down to sleep, and pray my visitors are pearly fair sheep.

But should I die, before I awake, attest my rich palette, I proudly did take.