Come take this heart,
steal its weight.
Or this mind—
and its serrated memories.
A ghost I loved returned to mist—
its smile a mask for darkness.
Light and shadow haunt my path,
with no place to anchor good or bad.
I pace restlessly,
seeking justice for this spirit.
Why wake, why march forth
through endless delusions?
The smoldering embers I left at dawn
linger for my nightly return.
This harmful, anoxic flame,
gnawing behind my eyes.
Stoking phantom coals,
my cast-iron lids grow heavy,
clanging shut like gates,
betraying sleep.
Time and space—mapped distances—
offer no closure, no warmth.
How does one navigate feelings—
through an abyss deeper than sanity?
Like a lost child seeking,
with a hunger beyond food.
Safety to quench the cold flame,
trust to foster quiet warmth.
Allowing myself to see the lies,
the poison behind their words.
I nurture the innocent one,
the child they sought to harm.
Reflection: The sublime holds the unfair advantage of knowing our face — like a caregiver turned volatile, slipping into mania or the grip of addiction. It lures with the familiar, like the ghost of the caregiver, yet it is unanchored — neither in love, nor in faith, nor in hope. It is a dark enigma, serving nothing but itself. Even so, we are no fools to express love, faith, and hope for one another. The sublime reveals both light and dark, like the front foot and back foot in walking. In its midst, we realize the bravery to choose love, faith, and hope.
Image credit: Mineraliensammlung des Naturmuseums Senckenberg, Aquamarin (2010), Eva K.
Primitive Joe 
