A Scar on The Face of The Soul of The Universe

I am a scar on the face of the soul of the universe, something grey and purple and dark; something searing and sad. Something wished hidden and forgotten.

I am the hunk of metal beneath the skin that calls out when it's cold, sings its screwtoned melody, recalls of the time when overwhelm got the upper hand. Like the scar above the fracture, like the scar on the face of the soul of the universe, it is a reminder of how things grow sick and break.

I am the glimmer in a mother's eyes now turned to ash, never to shine again.

I want to be well. Healed. Unmarred. I want to stop this ride I'm on, to take a breath.

But the brakes don't respond, and the rowers keep on rowing.

Where is my mind, that thing I treasure most? Where is my heartbeat? My imagination? Where are my friends and compatriots in this war of art and life, this battlefield of bullets?

Where have all the cowboys gone?

Am I implying I'm in need of rescuing?

Acknowledgement of existence would suffice. A tangible feeling of remembrance and meaning, of feeling less like a burden. Less like a scar. If only for a moment. A moment is all I need.

Just to take that breath.

But there is no rest in the storm, when all it does is rain and the scar on the face of the soul of the universe glistens brighter, the downpour mingling with the moonlight to ignite smooth, angry features. There for all to see, and in seeing, as it burns, increasingly easier to despise, to loathe, to wish away.

To try and ignore.

These are rainy, storm-filled days—days shaped by wandering uncertainty and uncanny edifices of normality. Of going through the motions. Of "everything is fine." Days that creep into weeks that seep into months that slip into years and decades and eternities that bleed their minutes and seconds into the splintered floorboards of a sallow, spider-webbed cellar, staining the earth beneath. That hollow out their shallow graves like so many stories left unwritten, so many dreams left half-remembered, bubbling just beneath the surface of an articulate thought.

When will the sun come up and dry up all the rain? When will the daylight shine upon this house?

When will I find the courage to dream again?

Where is my mind, that thing I covet most? Where is my heartbeat? My imagination? Where are my friends and compatriots in this war of art and life, this battlefield of bullets?

It's all there, I think, the heart and the mind and the sun and the sanctuary, trapped in the glimmer of a mother's eyes now turned to ash, never to shine again.

It went into that box with her.

It has yet to return.

— G

GY Haney