my hand is a mangled claw.
healing? sure. but
most definitely mangled.
i haven’t put out new music
in over two years.
should this matter?
to the world at large,
it is a resounding no.
but my soul,
my soul depends on it.
my soul
anemic and weakened
staggers around the
corners of my memory.
i try to nourish it.
to feed it
what i can but
it’s been war
for a long time and new
horrors have arisen.
i ration out my beleaguered
heart to it. my soul can’t
hold it down and vomits
out the gruel. i hold its
sick head in my hands
i whisper words of encouragement,
i tell it things will be
alright, as bombs go off
in my head and
the rafters come down.
it is fevered and coughing,
i clean it up as best
i can and put on
my bravest face.
i don’t want to spook
my soul. i let it rest.
i let it cry. i let it be.

and now I have my hand
to clean.