I turn around, and there he stands.
My very own fallen angel,
my very own demon.
I've put him out of mind,
but one can never truly let go of one's past.
I've given a name to the personification
of hurt and doubt and pain.
Because naming things gives you strength over them.
I've named him Malachite.
Lifetimes upon lifetimes,
I have lost to him.
You cannot outrun your self,
you cannot escape your past.
The promises of one's folly,
no matter how many lifetimes ago,
are always there.
He'd kill me if he could.
Again.
Though he knows I've conquered him before,
but even that would be my undoing,
a death to all that is warm and flowing within,
as I take up that frozen mantle
once more;
The Obsidian Throne.
You are always yourself,
even when you don't wish to be.
Even when you'd like nothing more than to
let go
of all the hurt
you've received
and inflicted on others.
On yourself.
But whose mask do you put on,
after you've killed yourself?
Who are you when you put on
someone else's face,
when you hide in someone,
something,
that does not feel;
certainly not pain.
Not his,
not others',
which you've inflicted?
Who looks back in the mirror,
then?
And Malachite would win.
He sees this reprieve,
I've finally found.
Happiness.
Such a fragile word,
such a fragile armour.
He'll remind me, gently,
that hope is the hope-killer.
That it is hope that opens me up,
to the chill that lies beneath.
He'd remind me,
that love might be my armour,
against his suggestions,
against his imprecations.
but love is also the chink.
We try to outgrow our scars,
but it is scar-tissue that keeps us bound,
that prohibits growth.
I've never been as fragile,
as I am now;
having opened myself up once more.
I've shed this armour of scarification,
but the pain of memory,
and the memory of pain,
of old lifetimes
without end,
is not so easily undonned.
And this pain,
his name is Malachite.
My own personal jailer,
who tells me he'll win.
And on these nights,
it is all I can do,
to not close up again.
This is my first chance.
And my last.
This piece of poetry burst out of me in fire and brimstone, with the taste of ash in my mouth, and the feeling of hot lead in my stomach. It is the piece of poetry that had undergone the most editing and rewriting. The only poem harder than this to write was my first real poem in 9 years, Return to The Garden, which was both about the shedding of the scar-tissue, and a big part in the process of doing so.
While the original version clawed itself out, it still needed ironing out, because word-vomit is not what we share. Yet, I tried to keep the urgency and the pain of it intact. Pain that I'll likely never be free of.
For those wondering, unlike my other poetry pieces with their biblical or Greek Mythology or... references, the Malachite and The Obsidian Throne written of here are part of my inner cosmology, and my writing of them goes back the better part of two decades. This is a piece that does what all poetry should, bring the reader into the world of its author. These are not out-ward facing references, no need to look them up.
Thanks to all the Isle of Write members who gave me feedback and encouragement on the piece, and all the others: @poet, @jrhughes, @whoshim, @carolkean, @authorofthings, @dbooster, @negativer, and @carmalain7.
And thanks most of all to @mamadini, my love for whom might be the chink, but it is also the armour, and the reason to keep fighting to change. To be and do better. And also the one whose light changes me, without trying.
Check out my latest posts:
- Silence - The second piece of my Man with No Name fiction.
- The Null Testament - A poem.
- A Tired Old Cliche - The first piece of my Man with No Name fiction.
art and flair courtesy of @PegasusPhysics
The image used in this post is The Fall of Lucifer, by Gustave Doré, 1866, and is public domain.
© Guy Shalev 2018.