Soul Whispers

With a canvas this large, I chose black paper And fruitlessly wrote with the same ink I did before A silent voice calling out to the deaf Smoke-strained and hoarse Remaining static at 25 The smallest of steps pushed back by quarantine Losing myself in stories of what once was Or what could be were I a different person Three and a half years static Having climbed dazzling heights Sweated in the loathsome summer sun And lived a taste of promised dreams Have I burnt through a lifetime supply of adrenaline? Or am I still shell-shocked from years of bombings? How long do I get to fear her name? Do exit wounds that bloody ever close? The credits rolled a long time ago And sequels were written, canned and derided What does it take to free yourself from a page You so gleefully shredded in the first place? And three years deep, I fell in love with my lover Only to find the depths of incompatibility Or merely two viewpoints that reached the same conclusion With two different formulas Having returned to zero, such pain is divine To weep so freely, to feel so sad The warmest, most comforting pool spills from my eyes As emotion returns to crack its dam Will I wake up tomorrow as empty as the years before? Most likely so, but with salt streaks as evidence Joy, sorrow, it's all higher than zero I call your name as proof I can still write On this space-dyed canvas My perspective wrote with jet-black ink But with this single crack A dam can jot down once with white.