Member-only story
And So the Dark Matter of My Soul
A poem of surrender
And so the dark matter of my soul forms a tear, a slit
so slippery it glides a path for hidden fears to
sidle down to self-dismissal. From narrowed
marrows of neglected time, it rips and gapes
and gasps, widens lurking wise-ass-ness to force
a burgeoning crevasse, an opening so rank
and hungry, it on itself begins to feast and pulse and
hope for bitter ends dissolving into passage
through this misconceived existence.
The hardness of me falls
into a softness indefensible.
I was a man once, slaved to forecast memory,
poisoned as they loved me with conditioned frailty.
Mossy, dank and soothing
cradles from boughs preferably unhinge.
I was a man, twice blessed by ineptitude embodied
in creators who had no business making me at all — until
entering you, a weeping, denied but now unleashed, rips wide
the way for who I am inventing. A man three times the darkness
cracking under light of chosen levity, questing purely
to be kissed and coming, unrelenting.
