Renaissance

I enter into this poem— a slaughterhouse in my body—

contending with the knives

that ruined my body with scars in duplicates.

A plague calls, & I respond with a gnash of Godlike,

each gnash etched deep into my heart,

all having the fret to forge my strength ahead.

I suspend my pains with imagination,

to create a craft:

work + lost + desire = self-renewal

I disown grief with a rebellious desire, to stay safe,

to prod my hands away from the search for waste.

knowing an ache that is stuck inside my soul isn't defeat.

Tomorrow, I would beg for rifling the devil's sting,

forging my vexed blood with serenity,

to hush the howling accent

of inner bruises locked in my bonecage.

I have grown to outlive the predators

that preyed upon my kindness,

& the erasure that held my porcelain heart hostage.

I consider ripping the charts of rioting cut

begging for visibility,

because such hurts deserve an antidote.

I have grown to trade grief for empathy

ramming into me as a Volkswagen.

Somewhere in my heart,

an orchestra plays my favourite hymns

& a gorgeous butterfly appears & carry me to a vast realm

where souls tango, on a platter of merriment.

In one event, I manifest in a waltz of a celestial body,

from the womb of a blue sky.

I uplift myself towards the mouth that owns me,

who approves my present.

My problems halt, & healing takes shape in the plot of my life.

May God have a photograph of this.