Little places where their soul seeps out.
Some in rivers, in torrents, and waves,
And others in whispers, shadows, and seeping
Creeping
Blood.
The chambers beyond these openings
These cracks and crevasses and
Doorways
Lead beyond
To the whole of one's soul.
A mirror of one's true self
Where few venture deeply into themselves
And even fewer are allowed.
But when the unworthy
The uninvited,
The lost,
And the malicious
Find themselves before this mirror,
This precious thing which is not theirs
And violate it with their touch,
Defiling its beauty with greasy fingerprints,
Looking deeply into depths unknowable,
Reading a false translation of a language
Unspeakable.
What is a soul to do?
Too late to close these outlets
And erect defenses,
What good would it do anyhow,
To trap a soul alone with no means
By which to speak?
It is thus that a soul sustains wounds
Unhealable
Unreadable
Unspeakable.
Binding the damaged soul in agony,
Loneliness, despair, and grief.
Alone,
Emotions laid bare as bones picked clean
Scour the worlds in anguish
Praying to be understood
And cherished
So that the mirror might one day
Unshatter
And be mended
So that love may gaze upon it once,
And thus,
Truly set it free.
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