[6 June 2021]
I am stretched,
strained, pulled between the not yet
and the never, held in suspension between
two things that never were and
never will be, perpetually at the
point just before the sun crests
over the horizon like a newborn
emerging from the grave of his
birth. Stillborn. Died by my own
hands, perhaps, but who can sever the
link between necessity and causality?
How much more must this way
go before I cast myself on that
altar built and bloodied on the corpses
of the moments, the dreams, I slew
just to reach this point – this inevitability. The knife
is held between my two hands alone and my chest is
bare, barren, hollowed out, and carved deep,
with each breath crying out how long, O Lord
until I find the strength to stand once more
and cast more fuel on the pyre or walk away
entirely and leave it useless to smoulder
and molder in the dust.
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