Sometimes I awaken with
there is no pain, only tremulous
anxiety as I lift them
and see needles have stuck my fingers
Which leave cracked imprints of blood
upon my eyes
and down my face like tribal paint.
This nightmare– this void–
is where souls feast upon people
who carry them, from the deep, dark that lies inside.
This is where things are not always as they seem,
as I appear to be, lost
within this murky and perse land
of strangers who walk the path towards
the fork. Never
seeing where they are going or
what they have turned their back on,
only the people who have forsaken them.
And the difference between these vacant,
is not the gaping chasm I thought it was.
I have been stripped down, facing a future, alone
with my own ravenous soul,
It’s beak, it’s– talons
ripping, peeling at my wings
trying to keep me grounded
trying to keep me in the safety net
of the world that I have always known.
But I must see beyond this house, this town,
I must flip on the light
and reach forward and seek my own face in the glass
and wipe away
this painted world.