Perhaps
It seems I have broken the lock
To a door that can not be kept closed without it.
A word,
Spilt after two years tied in by a knotting of my soul
That it may never slip from the brink of my grasp,
The tip of my tongue.
A portal pierced.
An image,
A story grows free
From where nothing had filled before.
Something is
That maybe was never meant to be.
A tale.
Words run free.
Words my master,
Needing life.
Images pour forth.
Perhaps it is all that is left
Of what defines my soul.
All the stories that make up me.
Or perhaps it is but one story
In shards cutting its way into the world.
Where from the words rise?
I do not know.
They maybe just the wishes of my mind,
Or another mind in which my soul once inhabited.
Deceased and reborn
Or as it maybe
Reborn and deceased.
© Matthew Robertson
1997
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