The storm washes the syllables away,
crashing against the walls we built,
until only what we carry within remains.
My hands close around the bars.
I cannot be closer.
I cannot be farther.
That is the essence of restraint:
it separates.
“Am I my brother’s keeper?” Cain asked.
Am I the keeper of your prison? I ask.
Keeper—
a beautiful word.
To keep someone:
is it to watch them through bars,
to toss them a little mercy,
or to ask instead: why bars at all?
If I were the Keeper,
I would tear down your prison,
refuse to accept that you are captive—
even if the whole world were nothing
but a prison.
The role given to me
would not change what I am.
I would ask nothing in return,
not because of you,
but because of me.
It’s something you won’t find
in lexicons or lessons.
It is either there, or it is not.
Where it comes from—
soul, blood, or memory—
I cannot say.
But it feels as if I swallowed a star
I once was,
and now it burns inside me.
Every word I speak
passes through it—
along a starry path, like Nimród.
I do not walk in the light.
The light walks in me.
Every contradiction holds a truth.
I carry them all.
I blindfold myself.
I place you on the scales.
If you weigh more than a feather,
I let you go—
to rise as you will.
I am not your judge,
not your executioner.
I am the Keeper
of truth, of freedom, of myth.
There is a silent verdict.
But you—
you would watch me
through the bars.
You would keep me,
instead of being my Keeper.
You love freedom,
if it’s yours to have.
You love control,
the sweetness of vulnerability.
You would not lift me up
to where you stand.
If I found a little light in my cell,
you would come at once
and claim it as yours.
But what if I carve the walls
with ink—only of you?
If every brick were a fragment of you—
would you tear the walls down then,
just to keep it for yourself?
So I could show you
how it feels
to choose to stay.
And we build the altar of ruin,
again.
So you heard my voice again, as so many times before. But did you really hear what I said? Or only what you wanted to hear?
