The Seventh Room

Mary Magdalene in the Cave

‘The ending is water’
Whispered a crow
As I step slow—Out, out of the asylum
My body, which isn’t mine, dragged all way
Needles falling on the grey floor,
Some I took off—
Others were inserted for too long
Hideous as a monster,
The survivor of the one thousand years bloodshed
Finally managed an escape, with a book and papers’ shreds
At the end of the aisle of patients’ beds,
I know there is a staircase leading to an exit
I ran downward.

I am almost out;
I could smell the water and see its drips on the floor
I dreamt that I felt the sands of the seashore touching my feet,
And that I saw the moulted feathers of gulls
Almost there, I thought
A sea that shall wash the years of weep
I dreamt of slipping among the river’s reeds
With the palm of my hands covered in leaves—
I reach out
But there come the thieves
All is gone—gone, gone. A dream is gone.
They close the doors
Catch the mad who tried to touch the shore!
I succumb. I am numb.

They locked me up in the Seventh Room
A white room with an iron bed
Pictures of previous patients hung on the wall
A trained doctor and a saint came out of the door
I could never run even if I crawl
Present as I am—in front of the ones who created me
The men of virtues—
They unwrap me,
Naked as I first came;
I had nothing to impress them with
These are my hands
My pale skin, my faint hair;
Bare and unpolluted for their entertainment.

A woman of many others like I
A woman is never born anew. I cry.
They had me sewn together with a glue
Stitched up—with wires and threads
I was made out of corpses’ skins
And fed lies in my dreaming beds
They gave me a name,
And taught me how to live in shame
I swallowed it whole.

They operate. I am paralysed.
Like a cadaver: only I see and hear.
Another animal experiment
The crowd shoves to see.
It’s done. I am re-soaked into the plague.
Or so they believe.

Five feet and four inches tall,
I inherited the nothingness—
I breathe oxygen and occupy space
I exist. I exist. I exist.
I learned how to drink the poison
And not die—
The trick is one swallow at a time.
Shackles and pills
Do it smiling—do it until you become a hard rime.

Wired to my roof. Threaded to a man above,
They call him God. But I call him my puppeteer.
They called this a life, I call it an act.
Another chapter on stage.

I dream—
Chaos is voiceless.
I thrust back to the sea, the waves rise and swell
They run to my lung and fill me,
I could drown
I could possibly die
But I exist—
Somewhere. Elsewhere. As a full moon.
All shall crack asunder
All shall dissolve in
And I shall end—
In water.

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1 Comment

  1. This truly inspired me to write to you so here I go~
    To you, a nocturnal desire that seems to be ever reflected by a never ending cycle of our moon.
    Yet you and you only shall remain the lunar miracle,
    Within you is the gravity pulling the universe and driving its expansion.
    To the elaboration, you are never ending nor beginning, you and your words to embrace, to contemplate and to cherish.
    And cherished through your art you are
    dearest horizon.
    rendered with words merely chromatic reflections of your perseverance in the name~

    And breath is the air you breath.
    Oxygen rendered by an atomic cluster of your sweet blood~
    Blood of my blood.
    Moon nights
    Sun of days
    And the cycle forever to be maintained.
    I wish you a pleasant day,
    May you prosper,
    May you love,
    May your heart be forever guarded.
    May your feelings forever remain calm, from the raging tides into a settled sea as a perfect ripple within the ponds, a resemblance of
    The rings that upon you shall be placed.
    A pedestal of truth and wonder you are~
    Yours truly
    Aymo

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