xxix.

if I could pen a poem
of ascension—
a verse to lift you
from yourself,
rousing the spirit within,

like a forest witch
whispering spells
to leaves and wind—
you would die
and rise once more.

no crosses,
no brimstone,
just words, scattered,
like boned-carved keys;
benevolent, terrifying.

I would turn the world.
I would speak the Word—
the one that wakes, that shows
what’s always been.
But alas, my King dreams on.

and I remain—
my solitude
not your chrysalis;
your happiness,
a ghost I cannot hold.

/lex

…

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