Those Words Spreading (Original)

To hear them tell it
I slayed the world
a fist of future in each hand,
time dribbling down my chin,
a maestro.

To hear their stories
I rose from the ashes,
the pain of my youth sloughing
revealing an angel sans wings,
soaring.

To see with their eyes
I'm both
invisible and eternal
spread across the spectrum
from one octave to the next,
singing.

But if you'd hear me tell it
I barely held on
a fist of eternal now in each hand,
anxiety dribbling down my chin,
a misery.

If you'd hear my stories,
I survived, surrounded by ashes
the hardened shell of my youth protecting,
revealing a survivor, shellshocked,
wandering.

If they asked what I see
I'm neither visible or eternal,
but a smear of consciousness
riding this octave to the next,
always singing.

There is no reason I cannot be both
that the truth cannot exist somewhere
between the stories and sightings
and the retellings yet told,
somewhere in the middle.

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@prufarchy

all images used are original