The Number 23 Poem by Ofentse Mercy Hajane (The Dark So'tho Seer)

Flogged 23 times by the hands of the gods,
The Pegasus of Eatos fell,
Echoing my obsessions,
My descent into madness,
My darkest sorrows,
As each 23 seconds of this living hell bled into the next.
Crimson rivers flowed from head to toe,
A silent signal to the damned that I was still alive—
But comfort, I found none.

I tried to end it all from the 23rd floor,
Only to rise again, broken,
23 bones shattered, yet somehow I stood.
My soul, still chained, still unfree.

I called upon the heavens,
Screamed for answers.
My KJV Bible, torn and battered,
Souls of its pages murdered by my own savagery.
But one page clung to the cover—
Psalm 46, a fragment of hope.
I read to the 46th word, searching for salvation,
But all it said was 'Shake.'
And so I shook,
Trembling under the weight of my fear.
The abyss of my mind twisted,
Molding dark clouds I could no longer escape.

Desperate, I jumped to the end of the chapter,
Counting back to the 46th word.
There it was: 'Spear.'
'Shake, spear? ' my mind screamed.
Shakespeare?
Was this the gods' cruel joke?
A puzzle born of 23 and 23.
My groin recoiled, my body shuddered.

Born under the sign of the Bull,
Cursed on the 23rd of April—
Just like Shakespeare.
A ghost from my past pierced my thoughts,
Bleeding through memories of a child I had forgotten.
My heir, born of my 23 chromosomes,
A son I had lost.
My head dulled, my mind weary,
As I tried to break the spell of this cursed number.

I split 2 from 3,
Forced them to oppose,
Yet it only gave me the impossible: 0.666666667.
The devil's number,
A cruel twist of fate.

O' cry, young son of man,
Stranger to my conscience.
I saw the 666 again,
Mocking me.
I calculated, I plotted,
Tried to deceive the gods with their own numbers.
But they laughed,
And threw me back to Numbers 23.
I read the 23rd verse:
'What hath God wrought? '
The Almighty's question,
Echoing in my soul.

All is perverted, my Lord.
I beg for mercy!
Free me from this wretched land—
The world that spins on a 23-degree axis.
Or I shall sin against you,
Hang this cursed body on a 23-foot tree.
The heavens remained silent.
And so, as an honorable man,
I kept my word.

23 feet high,
I sprang my 23 vertebrae,
Yet death refused to meet me.
I read the date—it was the 23rd day
Of the 2nd month of the 3rd year.
How could one be haunted by a number?
Insignificant to most,
Yet it held the weight of 23 souls.

I looked back,
Did the Ouija warn me of the devil's 23rd sign?
Now here I am,
23 years old,
23 minutes to midnight,
Cursed to sit in the 23rd wheelchair.
Inmate number 23 in the asylum.
Each night, at the 23rd hour, it visits my cell,
Whip in hand,
Tearing my skin open.
And as midnight draws near,
It leaves—23 minutes before I fall into hell.