Catharsis

For the first part,
I make an image —
myself not my self —
all I once wanted
unformed, malformed,
shaped from thought
lingering like gravel
grit and sooty snow.
From the air, I catch
echoes of words
ill-spoken, anxieties
I wove tight and fast,
a heritage acquired
from blood, the price
of being here at this
inflection point.

For the second, I fill
it with nothing
until it inflates out
enough like life to fool
those who do not see
breath or still minds.
It is time to lay this
all to rest in earth
where the structures
will uncoil themselves,
rotting into harmless
impressions of what was.
Pythios, take this, let
it fall away like the
one you slew at the navel.

For the final section,
I declare the foundations
into being, grounded firm,
open to light through which
stars fall like pinpricks,
seeing reduced to nothing
as if I am beyond this
tumultuous embrace of air.

Illuminated, so strange
to think the images
we made can still harm,
still bear stains that seep —
relentless — to weigh us down
saturated, even with no
share of deep-peaked
permanence that carries
up with the smoke,
up with the sound,
out and beyond,
circling and encircled
like twin stars dancing,
binary geometries
marking out the empty
fullness at their center,
your harmonies coloratura
pulsations that cleanse
even watching from afar.

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