Patchwork of a Master

This poem carries the truth of what rebuilding is; a deliberate reassembly of a life once dismantled by harm. It marks the moment I began honoring the strength it took to live through my wounds.

I’m taking control of this physical presence of mine

- this breaking ship;

pulling it down forcefully

to the bottom of this godforsaken sea,

allowing it to be destroyed by nature once and for all.

I’m restoring it,

piece by piece.

All the times it has shattered and I have reconstructed;

it has bled, and I have patched it up

- screamed; sometimes tormented,

other times crumbled as if haunted.

And I have silenced it with lullabies of hope.

Armored it

with plating hope.

Oceans could rage and waves overthrow the decks;

I pulled it through as if nothing was tougher.

Something was, and it would rupture from the inside

- a form of subaqueous mutiny to my own life.

A subliminal act of courage,

nonetheless.

My Purpose.

My Core of Existence.

My Essence.

My Being, being larger than this.

Preponderant to the weight of my memories, experiences,

and regrets.

It’s been endurable in a much lesser cage

than seemingly suitable.

Hidden away as the result of a laceration far greater

than anyone knows.

It was made up of fantastic pieces;

not by design,

but by violence.

Now, each piece will be put together

as originally as they came

- as oddly shaped as they are -

knowing everything there is to know about disquietude,

despair, and paroxysm.

Emotions weighing as bile water

while hope and dreams function as void tanks;

never sinking this ship again.

I’m making this fit for an unwavering journey of amelioration.

Awake.

This body, right here, with octagon patches,

others in diamond shapes or pointed hexagon silhouettes

- once thought of as kaleidoscopic evidence

of a historical lifetime,

when it was a patchwork of sequestration.

Now put together, tempered in all its nakedness;

fortified with love;

incorruptible through cleansing;

coated by nothing more

than itself.

No longer “suitable” for the cursorily, the arrogant,

the careless, or the covetous,

who are all missing the depth, loyalty, and survival skills

of this patched-up entity.

I’m fine with that - move along.

Please.

I want it admired by someone who can apprehend the history

- see beauty instead of patches;

dedicate to keeping it safe while it’s out there on open waters;

be present in the moments of its restored worth;

treasure it for all that it is;

lovingly patched together in awareness.

Not beautiful perhaps, but asymmetrical and radiant,

a similar figurine of prismatic segments as any other,

yet like no other.

It was never meant to be whole in the way they understand.

It was meant to survive.

And it did.

It was meant to feel everything

- and still remain.

So now

- when the waters rise,

when the old fractures echo through the hull,

I don’t silence them.

I don’t fight them.

I know them.

And I move anyway.

Not unbroken

- but mine.

ღ 

Skye

Reviews

[SkinlessFrank]

This one is sublime and raw in its honesty. You have taken me on a voyage through the subconscious with survival, growth, longing, and self-discovery as the signposts. You have a marvelous gift of self-reflection which awakens my own.

[Skye Céibhfhionn]

That is the greatest thing anyone can do, inspire the journey of self-reflection. Be a mirror to another world coming to life. Nothing will be the same