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.
How to make magic: evoke
stunning beauty in three words or less;
imagine like a goddess
building a brand new world; run
without moving; cry
at pretty sorrows; and laugh
at endings, for you keep
no faith in absolutes.
you. Given enough time, you know
all stones and bones defossilize,
enliven, and grow
again, again, again, spiriting
in cycles too vast for theories to vault.
to hide the fact you’re doing
and there’s no escape
but to dream that eons entwine,
infinitely packed without a care
for paradox or spacetime. Here, you stroke
with your little hours; here, you reach
the gods of everything.
when there is nothing else,
itself, and when all is gone,
dies. Its absence becomes
for something civilized,
a craving for stars,
galaxies and minds