POETRY | SPIRITUALITY

The Last Stop is Ataraxia

Me looking for me again

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

Alongside the margin I wrote,
added as an afterthought,
waning ink, and ripped pages,
next time you’re here —

Never learned how to create,
an instruction manual, I asked,
weighed, packaged elements,
I’ll storm the world tomorrow.

Something new, you offered,
protracted infinite days,
beginning again to fail again,
rising to a bare minimum.

Pulsing ticks of a metronome,
immiscible wrath and anguish,
darkness that is wholly mine,
reaching an exorcist’s embrace.

Flipping through bookmarks,
pages don’t turn forward,
I used to be wiser, a believer,
or knew too little, too less.

Unfurling slender branches,
sketching my skin leathery,
hands clutching its columns,
of fire-breathing custodians.