Echoes of the past, kept as pets in a starving box.
Glued together wholly, no room for novel space.
A spider’s string stuck to my back, each step forward the weight of a monstrous myth;
The corpse of time, dragging itself forward.

Luminous space infiltrated by jested thoughts,
its rebellious attitude only cuts deeper.
The enemy of my thoughts - who am I to fight?
The I, a mysterious letter; a single stroke
Yet with such might beneath the ink
Lies refuge from the one who questions:

who dares return to the poisoned well?
why am I to pay for the sins of an innocent child?
why am I burdened to unwind the ties of a knotted self?

My life’s purpose decorates a fated room,
A refuge for those who must forget.
Let the past’s echoes stay buried— silence the instrument, and hear.
A pleasurable pain I ache to claim at once.

Be a snake who sheds its cancerous skin,
or the corpse of the soldier who fought:
Nevertheless,
let pain not be in vain.