The Rupture

Symbolist poetry

The rupture is a  
moving crater;  
it burrows deep within  
your core,  
finds a way  
to stop you,  
to smother you  
whole.

You carry its silence  
in your belly—  
a blooming, blackened,  
throbbing stone.

Your jaw braces,  
your chest tightens,  
your breath shortens,  
your mind heightens—  
climbing,  
climbing,  
climbing down  
your spine,  
unwinding.

Your grip—
whitens.  

Your mind panics, 
chanting:

Don’t.  
Let.  
Go.

A mantra  
to cast the darkness  
out.

But the feeling is a clinging  
omen—  
a stolen future,  
you.

It builds a city of  
aches and hollows,  
lets the wind scatter your ashes  
in seasons.

“Nothing lasts” becomes  
doctrine,  
written in the skies,  
and your skies are  
always holding night—  
always dripping  
tar.

How do you conjure day  
when all you know is void?

Step through the mirror chamber.  
Surrender to the whole.

Build an exorcism  
of thought.

Let the moment  
that defined you  
be a prison  
left behind you.

Your future is made of choices—  
a living string of keys,  
unlocking,  
unlocking,  
unlocking  
your mind  
in threes.

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