A fission of soul

by Martin Shone

Thou art destruction

To believe anything other than this
would be a sin
for within, the fire within, it lives
where it is kept in check by the crease
of thine own mirror’s aging visual sorrow
where it can only be seen peripherally
so it is quite invisible
until the moon shatters the disguise
if it can be called a disguise
more probable is its name; a fission of soul
where the rip
burns deep within
where that sharp loss of connection
to this visual
this
fire within
this destruction of mine own art
feels so much like feathers being torn
being ripped back from tip to stem
in ugly painful destructions of flight

… is it this?

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