Photo by Nicolas Picard on Unsplash
I spun a web to sleep last night with the chills that grated my joints together like sandpaper.
His almighty collection of tools to later unfurl into my recollection.
Today I am reborn like Lazarus in a gruesome sweat, encircled by darkness.
A black void I am woefully accustomed to, a terse connection never tapers.
I gasp for air; clutch the rancid dirt above,
Ignoring hands outstretched to alleviate my futile struggle with their love.
This ensures the sands of time will go with unrest,
I have shot down every single dove.
For the look on their faces disgusts me, hands gleaming with sweat.
Pity, I refuse it,
Ultimately there is nothing left. There never was inside me-
Outside of me was my self-obsessed
Priority and property.
I’m scraping, screaming, biting,
Speaking in a language only I can decipher.
People of Babel reveal truth through shedding the layers of my distorted identity.
I am transgressing to a pure dimension, losing myself to blood and gore.
The fiber of my silk web spins repulsively a series circuit,
Of intravenous structures and doctors could never cure it.
Now I have a new home to inhabit,
One of nothing but 4 walls to attempt to salvage my Self.
I emerge alone, the quintessential key to rebirth.
This feels right.