She shut her eyes to see
a universe within, stunned
at her own second coming
Here, she was the artful creator;
here, she reigned
by her own decrees:
she imagined joy, and thus was joyous
as a newborn god, enthralled
by making herself
I post this from time to time — it is my story. I am not my story, but I have overcome so much to get where I am, which is something worth honouring.
You author reality with metaphors
and verb to make a living
while the ghost writers circle
like carrion birds, waiting to rip
your soul from your flesh.
You, a palimpsest, have shed
covers, switched genres, crossed out
every adjective you used to be;
and I, your avid reader, await
your next page, enthralled
and close to tears, overlooking
You pull yourself in, deliberately,
abruptly peaceful in your fate: being
a minuscule point of space, a short line through time.
You call it progress but I resist,
caressing the dials of my perceptions
to watch you bloom
in all directions, infinitely, like a fractal-soul,
which is, after all, just a point, a line,
multiplied forever. Or
in other words, your full potential.