THE EPHEMERAL ARCHITECT

Time ain’t fly…

that clock just got a louder alibi.

Every tick testify, every hand wave bye,

to another version of me that already died.

Even charcoal change character.

Pressure quit playin’ warden, now the cell lost its janitor.

They carved me in granite, thought the damage was permanent,

funny how the stone kept the picture…

but forgot the person in it.

Whole soul used to run on survival subscriptions.

Fire. Flood. Famine.

Three different addictions.

Now peace in the crib…

and I don’t trust the conditions.

That silence suspicious.

How the hell I’m supposed to recognize myself

when the villain packed up,

left the house,

ain’t leave no eviction?

Y’all met me bleeding.

Y’all applauded every season.

Built cathedrals from my scars,

turned my suffering to reasons.

Now the altar looking vacant.

Now the preacher ain’t raging.

Tell me…

what scripture sound sacred

when the pain stop translating?

Can you blame the machine

when the motor quit feeding?

Can you charge the bullet

when the trigger quit squeezing?

Nah…

Something colder happened.

The war didn’t beat me…

it got bored and abandoned me.

Jason Williams…

that name hit different.

It wasn’t heartbreak.

It was heart maintenance.

Like somebody unplugged the outlet

my demons rented.

Thirty years wearing trauma

like it came with the outfit.

Whole wardrobe stitched from survival.

Couldn’t imagine another fit.

Thought the scars was the skin.

Whole time…

they was just the bandages.

Now healing got me feeling counterfeit.

That’s twisted.

Imagine making your whole identity

outta surviving,

then one morning you wake up…

and ain’t nothing chasing you.

That’ll shake you.

I spent so much time introducing myself

through open wounds,

closed wounds feel like strangers.

That’s danger.

Cause now I ain’t wrestling pain…

I’m wrestling purpose.

Different opponent.

Same circus.

Rearview mirror finally broke,

now the windshield got opinions.

Past keep calling collect,

I’m declining every sentence.

Present got better reception,

future quit asking permission.

Guess that’s growth…

Or maybe that’s just what freedom whisper like

when trauma finally lose your number

and stop calling every night.

~MUJAHID