Pisaries Creator

Dipping my hand into the water,

too opaque to see what is at the bottom,

still willing to go deeper and deeper to get to the core.

It’s the center of it that keeps me going,

that propels me forward,

even through the terror of the unknown and the screams

ringing in my ears from those long dead.

It is the weathered organ inside me,

the one beating in my chest,

half the tempo that reacts when I shout at my enemies,

laugh with my friends, and cry to thirsty strangers.

My fingers grip onto metal cups of slimy liquid,

a nod to a life not long ago that understands getting

cut with a blade hurts like hell.

Beyond the youthful appearance I have,

magnified with injections, creams, and magic potions,

lines of chalky residue to feel alive one more hour

I snort up my nose.

The stories I ignore and their forgotten meanings,

it won’t be the lesson learned that sticks

to the bottom of my foot as it digs in to the sand.

Not even the creature with sharp teeth,

biting intruders deter me from moving around,

it won’t, it never will because my wounds have

already healed.