Entombed inside me is something that is beyond this state of the world,
beyond all the reality TV show drama, the sex scandals, the murder-suicides,
what a Hollywood starlet wore this week, who got shot and blown up yesterday;
all the poisons that are trickled down on us by wicked hands.
Deep inside this body, buried in the marrow of my bones stirs a collection of ghosts;
all the souls of this worn world that strayed from the mob of blinded.
The ones that retrieved their sight, the ones who crawled on the dirt,
found a way onto their feet, and thirsted for a change.
Inside me they wail and sway, tossing me from side to side at night,
as I dream of their dreams, a world made of their dreams.
Materializing our dream into physicality is the most grueling of tasks,
but with the highest effort I drag myself to this gleaming goal,
with oozing gashes and perse bruises adorning me.
But I don’t drop a single tear for these wounds,
because behind this face and all its blankets of skin,
the souls rattle with joy.