Hello my friend, indeed
it's been a while.
Many dawns since faced without you.
I am now blinded by their brightness
and long since deafened by the firing
of futile, fear-filled hostility.
These soiled hands: my eyes
now fumble
through the raped and bludgeoned earth
our blood the solitary quencher
of it's spiritual satiety.
No one willingly maimed
is ever garanteed protection.
Hands fumble forward in the mud.
Ascending, I feel unworthy
for no hooves ever hampered my grasp:
I have survived.
Unanswered questions keep me restless,
sleep deprived in blood soaked mud.
What part of you was so damaged
as to lash out against your adytum?
When will I let go of guilt?
Atop the mountain I am handed a box.
I feel it lightly placed in my palms.
It is the answer I didn't find in time to save you.
When does suicide become the only option?
How can anyone function with so many psychic doors locked shut?
(How emancipating it must be to rip open and discard this asphyxiating physicality)
Opening the Mystics' box I feel it's contents;
notes and ornate hair combs placed on pale blue satin.
Hands now accustomed to sense
feel color and light
as it illuminates this pretty coffin
and me, on life and purpose
through it's token trinkets
of secret societies.
Are you still so bitter in death
as to not see the futility of your actions?
Must your morose skeleton remain so steadfast,
sullen on your horse?
Is there a way to show you now
this satin through my touch?
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