Who taught you how to feel,
to tell the difference from
what is real and what is missing?
And they kept coming, the lessons,
the waves of doubt, the half-light
playing between night and its stars.
The things you believed in, that space
where love grieved, shaping itself
into a body of arrows and knives.
More specifically, the techniques of
being human, effortless as tendrils
of lightening traveling down,
a symbol, a figment, a glowing streak
of destruction or perhaps, just perhaps,
a sign of redemption.