The day my eyes sealed shut, A decade passed unseen, The world transfused through veils of flesh, Filtering light, To shadows of swirling grey.
As time crept on, The hinges grew thick with rust — A tomb behind wet lashes— And though I scratched and scraped, The door was buried beneath the temple of who I once was, a temple now absent of sound.
Burnt incense from loved ones, sent smoke trails through cracks. Sifting through my fingers, I wrote cursive return letters, “I am still here.”
But the smoke turned to ash, And fell on knotted hands, So I ground the days in mortar and pestle, smashing roots and seeds and bone.
My appetite never satiated, my eyes unseeing, my fingers covered in soot; I began to dig my way out.
Navigating by swirls of incense smoke, I clawed through earth, past splintered bone, wet root of tree, and at last the crumbling seals of rust.
When I surfaced, The soft hum of a bell Reverberated the air around me, Reaching from a temple In the hills of Chiang Mai.
My eyes flicked open. I saw red flakes drift down like freckles, And I knew I would never close my eyes again.