Remember? What light, water, and earth was memory made of?
Only haptic in my hands and in the crevices of my head, but beyond that.
your soul lies, asleep, curled and muted except for the exhaling of breath
like a small animal tucked in a corner of sunlight. Death wakes it, stirs it
in the same manner as love, and the sight of love. It draws it up and pulls it back.
Death lets the animal of the soul out to feel real air, true sunlight.
But mine, mine died imprisoned, raking claws, talons, teeth against its captive walls.
So the scars, the cuts you see inflicted by my own hands are nothing,
Nothing but the simple necessity of breathing.
Without them, letting the smoke of my burnt soul out, I would be screaming.
Continue reading “Three Poems | by Ryn Weil”