بِسْمِ اللهِ الرَّحْمٰنِ الرَّحِيْمِ

 

spliced

often am I led to silence, and thus spliced in two, a part of me to feel, and a part that knows there’s nothing she can do. Little cuts unintended, expressions unmirrored or unattempted, seems the bleeding is mine, something eternal and unending. But this is not so different than the time that came before, perhaps my sojourn is simply so colored, a brilliant shade of crimson red, hypnotizing in its drip, a guillotine ticking relentless. In these moments most, is the reminder strongest that she is this life’s road, this life’s test, that far ahead awaits my aim, where the ideal thrives both in its giving and its reception. I am absent all regret, simply whelmed by what I cannot express, to she a world away, but hiding as a longing inside the chest. Forgive me my Creator, these times are not so bad, just the battle is within the self, with victory a thing so distant, at times the core freezes long before the ocean dares to melt, so thoughts within remain wisps on a wind unheard and ungiven, sonar without edge or container or detection, silence in essence, its origin a scream borne soundless.