I have not seen too many days,
but I know how to read inverted omens.
I understand the cruelty of infirmity;
how the body becomes a sieve for worms to slither through,
how the soul becomes a haven of nightmares and abysses.
I know the smell of lifeless blood and sweat,
how drugs and regimens make love to vanity.
I know the emptiness that comes with facing the truth
of an eventual demise; the ordinariness of fruitless faith.
I know the sound of death’s axe on the flesh:
earth-shattering, guttural, bestial and rude.
but I am also well-acquainted with the law of restoration
I understand the sacred geometry behind healing:
like the rain, the panacea pelts the soul in aliquots.
first, it appears as the rays of sunlight, medleys with
the wind and the answered prayers of a thousand dewdrops —
then it consumes the thoughts till they become forgetful
of the pain that nearly made them give fate the middle finger.
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