Souls

I have written souls that will never see daylight.

I have written poems that delve into the dark, and there should remain.

I have written rhymes that shine painfully.

I have written declarations that could shatter even the strongest foundations.

I have written condemnations that shame me more than their subjects.

I have written physics without laws.

I have written life without oxygen.

I have written threads that will never see the web.

I have written tangibles that came from nothing.

I have written thoughts I shudder in remembering

I have written memories already long forgotten.

I have written words that should be whispered and shouted, and repeated and repressed.

I have written in anger and peace, in wrath and weariness, in inquisition and exposition, sharp and smooth, delicious and in poor taste, in direction and in wandering.

I have written countless fragments and compositions and they are a mosaic of existence—meaningful yet meaningless, and powerful yet impermanent.

I have written. I have done. I will do. I will be.

The words will be gone. I will be gone. But they will have been, created, proof, of something, of Me.