Who I Become

A grimoire so grim, in the hands of an author so slim.

The story of one was written therein.

A peek was all I caught from its pages,

But dreary were the words written within,

And in hopeless awe, silent I remained.

Then I heard something,

A faint heartbeat echoed so loud,

And a spark stirred from above.

A sound wrapped in warmth and unearned peace,

Brought a feeling I thought I'd never feel.

Hope, joy, and the weight of being loved.

Twas a surge of what could never be.

The spark bore sounds that stilled my soul.

It morphed into a sphere of fire sealed in light,

Its flames flared in graceful dance,

Leaving trails of golden smoke.

The spark wafted towards the grim grimoire,

And in a dazzling swoosh,

the book was set ablaze!

The author who held the book fell,

Writhing in pain from the flames.

Suddenly, wildfire rose and raged—Untamable it was.

The fire came closer. And closer. Too close.

And with nowhere to run,

I gave up, ready to draw my final breath.

But then,

Instead of burns, I got healed.

Instead of pain, I felt whole

Instead of death, I was made alive.

It soothed my wounded hopes and past.

But all else that was grey, it burned

—the grim author not being spared.

I walked closer to the author's face,

and lo, it was me!

Then I saw,

on the book's cover was written,

under smoke and ash the words were hidden:

"My heart will build its own mind."

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Writing Every Mhyle is how I explore the messy process of living life. If these words sparked a thought or resonated with you, please consider subscribing and supporting my work