quiet cries of the inner sanctum

All the time, I heard the screams of a child.

Not fearful screams, but neglected screams.

Invalidated screams.

The one’s adults might call the “why me” screams.

Sometimes they’d be there waiting for me

In the deep hours of the night.

After thinking I had centered myself,

A subtle plea seeps into my hearing space.

The thing is, I know this child.

This child doesn’t stand before me.

The soft cries call me inward

To the realm of my thoughts, my psyche.

There the child plays,

Eternally dancing between the fragments of all memories

Both good and bad.

Here you will find the child’s story.

The child never ages.

The child remains as tempered idol of what you’ve worked through and what you haven’t.

The inner sanctum is where one can find solace.