i’ve been away
2025-02-22
i
hey
i’ve been away
from myself
from my paper
from my pen
from my sacred den
i’ve been betraying myself
putting all my faith in the paper lock i put on the door of my den
i was told i have to leave
i had left
not because i was told by those unaware how beautiful my den is
and how messy their den is
i left because
my den is really really beautiful
and it’s no use for me
if it’s not use to others
and i’ve been so far gone
my den sits atop a hill so far from everything
so far from everyone
and i’m walking back from it
putting all my faith in the paper lock i made
from a 17th century geometry book
containing someone’s notes
yet no sketches
not some messy lines
not one scribble
just math notes on some pages
they are full now
telling the story of my journey to my sacred den
built atop the seed of the forbidden apple
that got me banished from the garden of eve
the long walk
the many reactions
from both my demons and my angels
from god himself, my father
many faces i saw on my face
many fractures i had
many herbs i collected
many stars made their own den above mine
many
mes i came in contact with
many senses i made sense with
many mysteries i solved them with
i'm on my way back
i came with my head on the ground
i'm going back with it straight
looking the parts of me i may have lost
dropped
forgotten
but this time i'm searching myself up there
the feathers i shed descending from the heavens
this time i'm not looking at my impact
i'm looking at my fall
in a perfect world i wouldn't have a lock at all
not because i'm afraid someone would break in
simply because it won't be as tempting to see what's in it without a lock
just like my father
just like how he sealed my fate when he forbid me the apple
causing me to taste it
in a perfect world i would come back to my den
and find the remnants of a healed world
golden hair on the red cushions
the dying orange embers in the fireplace
now alive in the body of someone with golden hair
feeding that golden hair
in a perfect world
the 17th century geometry book of mine would tell the story of the arrival of my golden haired self
and they would be so inextinguishable that i couldn't tell which is mine
in a perfect world there would be hundreds of reminders everywhere i looked
everywhere i looked
every path i traversed
that i'm a nobody
cause i'm everything
how do you want to read?
poems can unravel themselves as you read, line by line, at a considered pace — or just sit there, fully visible, like normal.
change this anytime — look for “reading: …” near the top of any poem.