I’m collecting broken pieces,
sharp edges scattered on the floor,
the strange shards, the impossible dust,
no, even that sounds clichéd,
like a wounded wail silenced before its end;
who cries into nothingness?
how do you pick up mangled parts
and build yourself again,
without hands, without eyes?
I’m growing a new soul in a petri dish,
(not that I think much of souls)
but who can tell what was there, what is missing,
there’s that three legged cur
that scrounges for scraps by the temple wall,
does he realise
what those looks mean,
the fleeting pity
before the devout rush in to find their god?
how does he pray for a leg
no one told him he must have?
I’m watching as that soul grows,
a purple stain like spreading twilight,
it has a voice now,
talking, talking all the time,
there, it says, there, you forgot that pasty bit,
without it, what will you be,
black resin, like melting night,
the darkness that was inside you,
put it back, glue it in,
without it, what can you be,
without it, how will you know the light?
I’m debating with a laboratory soul,
without a mouth, without lies,
scrounging for darkness in purple twilight,
with it, what should I be?