Not Otherwise Specified

this one hurt to write.

I am cured,

the warrior victorious.

So they say.

The proof is in the numbers.

it lives in between

my skin and my skeleton.

Yet here I am,

with all these questions.

I hold all of this improvement

inside of my body,

but how come I can't seem

to feel it within me?

This is the house

that holds my bones,

and who are you

to call it sacred?

I don't want

vaulted ceilings,

flying buttresses,

a golden apse,

embracing a marble altar.

I cringe at the thought

of all that space

between my epicenter

and my outer limits.

This is not how one

rich in epiphany

thinks.

Call me cured,

but I've hated myself more

than I should stand to endure.

I look back at that sickness

with reverie.

I was better at being

what I feel I should be.

Stuck in the past,

living in a place

that doesn't exist.

You built a new house

on my foundation.

I walk in a blindfold

with the old halls memorized,

awkwardly bumping elbows and toes.

I long for that condemned place.

Reviews

[Author Rucha Joshi]

The visual this poem brings is very detailed and deep.
I love reading poems on here and like the deep ones as these.
hoping to read more from you!

[serpentine]

thank you so much, it means a lot!

[Author Rucha Joshi]

:) You're welcome

[Alexx]

This is deep. We'll done. Thank you for sharing