Rough Hands

I’m not sure I’m ready to swim against these currents alone, relinquishing these pieces and my company of demons.  I would not brave these uncharted waters, only to flounder amidst their turbulence, and be swept forth to a perpetuity of shade – for I could not resist the wrath of these waves. There is safety, in this bludgeoned fortress; comfort, in the persecutions of the light.  I’m not sure I’m ready to sheathe this sword.  I fear liberation.  I fear joy, ever more than I fear sorrow.  I fear peace, ever more than battle.

I’m not sure I can breathe without this smoke and brimstone.  I’m not sure I can extinguish the infernos which consume me still.  I’m not sure I can live without these ghosts.  I’m nothing beyond that which I am not.  I’m nothing beyond that which I was.  I’m nothing beyond that which I cannot be.  I’m not sure there’s an antidote for this malady.  I’m not sure there’s a song beyond these storms, or an orchestration lost amidst its cacophony.  I’m not sure I’m anything beyond charred flesh, and a thirst sated, unquenched, by salt water.  I’m not sure infernos or hallowed water can purge the venom of these wounds.  I’m not sure if these stars will ever glimmer as bright as they once did.

I think all that’s left is a memory, like an autumnal petal, leached of colour, scattered upon the wind – a relic of the grace of bloom, fleeing from the grasping, rough hands of a withered soul, and lost amidst the blaze.

Am I the same person?  Do I yearn to be?