the awakening.

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"Perhaps it is better to wake up after all,
even to suffer; than to remain a dupe
to illusions all one's life."

the awakening

there are rocks on my shoulders
pressed in
to grooves where muscles meet bone;
there are rocks
that cover wounds,
make wings hard to unfold.
flying away
does not come easy
when dirty faces wear the masks
of angels
and there is nothing
and you have nothing
and you


tainted reflection,
eyes clouded,
walls that scream
in the silence of a storm,
and the urge to run
starts to creep

that’s when they come...
filling in the holes of
cracked foundations,
but that cheap kind,
that splits and cracks and snaps
when pressure is applied.
their tongues,
serpentine and
breathing dreams of sweetness
into ears
so hungry.

so hungry
I’ve convinced myself
that sustenance can be found
in scraps of truth
woven in with the lies;
so hungry
I’ve subjected
to hands and lips and skin
unworthy of my caress,
my breath.

but how does one
rise above
reflections of self
in mirrors
clouded by shadows of false perceptions
internalized misconceptions
turned self-mutilation
asphixiating on ties
that gag and bind me to
empty promises
clawing at empty dreams.

I suppose its just one of them things
that one

and so the rain,
it came down
in sheets of vengeance,
in teared offerings
dripping from the cheeks of angels,
while thunder
clapped against itself and
this earth
became flooded.

and this be the palette of dreams,
deluge of inspiration
filling in the cracks
of parched land
turning sand
into soil once again fertile
that life’s seeds
long to reclaim.

and all things are new
as eyes readjust to light;
knife removed
from back to cut ties
that shackle broken ankles
to roads leading nowhere.

this is that
spiritual exorcism shit,
washing away dirt
from those spots
that a good
can’t even reach;
picking demons
wedged between teeth
that turn breath and words
rank and foul.

this is the time
when molasses is thinning,
thoughts flowin faster,
nights’ sky still glowing
with sunshine
and dreams
that bask in the promise
of yesterday’s forgotten tomorrows.

the book is rewritten,
this time in blood
on the pages of skin
stretched taut over bent knees
slowly remembering how to straighten.

for time doth tell a tale no more
of rewound, replayed scripts.
the voice,
it finds bass
to rise above insecurities tenuous treble.
fingers unfurl
from angers clenched first,
their tips immersed in holy water
collected in fallen leaves.

holy trinity
in renewed self-reflections.
bless the forehead and the heart
cross yourself seven times
in the name of the mind, the body, and the spirit

for this
is the awakening.

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