nails wedged into one breathless demand:
that the pitiless wood keep me idle no more
and release me from time’s still hand.
… The silence should bleed me like a knife
but nothing spares my unspent heart.
I cannot get into my life.
Instead, I make restlessness an art.
The cold taught me all I know,
paralyzing my pleading limbs.
Uncomplicated darkness was my home,
‘til one day I woke to light trickling in.
Since tasting the heat of truth,
I’ve been chasing the sun for a real burn.
I crave worlds untouched by this roof.
I want out of this cave, I want to learn:
about hell, about heaven,
about whatever is in between.
I’ve fostered a spiritual tension
where ignorance keeps me keen.
I’ve pupils for eyes, but they’re shrinking,
choosing illusion over sight.
I scrub at the curse of knowing,
wishing back the purity of night.
When in one panel, hope blooms
where insistence forged its way,
I end up clawing around the wound
to avoid meeting day.
The ache has become an addiction.
I struggle with keeping down the key.
Towards my lips, inches liberation
yet I recoil from its melody.
Now I’m taunted by indecision,
although the path is clear:
I could cower in the corner of submission,
or face the bitter tongue of fear.
With
this becoming sharpness,
I cut my self out of a trance.
For the fetters forbidding catharsis
have always been my own two hands.
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