tonight i closed the book before the ink had dried. i took a laser beam and a needle and tried to focus on how far they penetrated into my heart. i took a scalpel and carved out the honeycombs of the homes of the little lives who claimed residence. i cleared out the rooms, dusted the drawers. packed the boxes and taped them, labelled for goodwill, with good riddance, i cleared my heart.
there is a pedestal that now sits there. this hotel for visitors now an empty palace, with only one master.
i shut the lights before i leave, so that i do not see myself. i always saw you best at night, in the darkness of my lids. this self-inflicted blindness, now my twenty-twenty vision.
i write with an ink that i thought had run dry: reclaim the flesh that sits in your chest, refocus on your roots and leave to God the rest.