There's something that used to fit in my hand.
It caught all the callouses and blisters at the right edge
rubbed all the hard points perfect
wrapped by pianist fingers
laid on a duelist's palm.
A dreamer's eyes.
A martyr's dream.
A nightmare's laughter.
A lover's lingering scent.
I used to be a gentler, calmer man.
I had all the time in the world
all the sand on the beach
all the love in the room.
How did I break that?
When did anger become my voice
fear, my motus.
Hurt, my gladius.
When did this scar on my spirit
the size of a jagged chasm
the depth of a hollow abyss
become my most remarkable feature?
Will I ever let it go?
Has the absence become the thing that I hold onto
that which fits my hand now...
There's something that used to fit my hand...
something that used to fit my personality
something that used to fit my ego
something that used to fit my heart.
But I was just holding sand again.
It has run out
and I am lost
a child
a warrior
a poet
a man
when there is no place for any of these things in this world.
