Soul Theft

It happened early Tuesday morning. It has taken me this many days to verbalized it. Describing violent images is not an easy task. You see, the heart beats faster and faster. The head gets heavy. Hands shake. You close your eyes into short meditative moments, breathing and counting.

Inhale. 1. 2. 3. 4.

Exhale. 1. 2. 3. 4.

With each breath I center. This is not reality. This is violent imagery, seeping the emotions hiding inside my body’s cells.

The dream.

I am in the third perspective, observing. I have floated to the ceiling, and I am looking down upon the scene.

I am on a bed. I have on black pants and a white, short sleeve t-shirt. I am flat on my back. My arms are beside my body, which is completely straight. I cannot see my feet.
The bed is surrounded by people standing shoulder to shoulder. They are not moving. They are silently looking at me as if assessing their handiwork. They are gray forms. I cannot see them clearly. They look almost like carved out statues except for their left hands. Each one is holding a large knife in their hand. It is dripping with bright red blood.

From my unnoticed perch I’m the ceiling I am quizzically observing my own stomach and chest area. I feel no emotion as I look. It is hacked into so many pieces it mimics brutally tenderized meat. Blood is soaked into the white sheet all around me.

My gaze moves to my face. I believe I am still alive. My eyes are black. My facial expression looks peaceful. There is no scream to my mouth or contortion.

“How odd.” I think.

I awaken with a start, my muscles jerking, my heartbeat rapid, and I look at the clock. It is 7 am. I have chills in my skin. I curl beneath the covers, turn on a movie and make my mind try and forget. The images invade my day, drifting in and out. I know this will fade. I have been here so many times now, in the aftermath of violent night travel into the subconscious.

I bring out the emotion there. I hold it in my hands. It is the ghost wounds of countless stabs cast into the center of my spirit. I let it fade until I can be here now, scribing it without tears.
Digital Art ©VennieKocsis.com

The Mermaid

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The Mermaid

They said they
Found her drowned
Below the galley
She had
Tried to
Scratch her way
Back to sea

And when they say
“Drowning”
They mean
“Breathing”

They say she
Was homesick
For the quiet
The way the water
Moved things slow
The way the starfish
Danced in the jellyfish glow

She couldn’t float
In this human world
Of capture and
Lack of concern
She could neither bear
The way they hurt
Nor wear the scars
Of so many broken hearts
The deceptions
The misconceptions
The ego and mayhem

Chained, she became
Irrelevant pieces
For the thirsty
Drank from
A well sucked dry
Until her eyes cried
Like a taste of her
Momentary decadence
Could make their pain die

What a farce they created
As her spirit was deflated
Her existence debated
In hookah lounges
By serious hounds

Without a care
They used
Abused
Created confusion
With their illusions
She floundered
Broken gills
She was left alone
To weep and feel

They say she looked
Peacefully asleep
The air moving curls
Once, she’d begged
Never to be
lain to rest in coffins
Or beneath earth
She couldn’t bear
To become dirt

They say they found her
Fingers bent and broken
From holding to the hoping
So long there was
A permanent curve
A bend of the wrist
Left from too much wishing

Still now in the silent dark
She bumps the bows
Reminders that you will
Fail at rowing her sea
And she sings songs
“Of the one who
Never owned me.”
Lilting tunes of bravery
For the Matadors
Who valiantly tried.

They say there rose a tide
The day she died
So powerful
New planets were birthed
As she returned to moon
Escaping earth

And now she watches
From a star beneath the sea
Where coral reefs
Glow geometric algae
She writes stories

Deep diving
She died a thousand
Human deaths
Returning into
Liquid lungs
She explores the depths

v.k poetry
©venniekocsis.com

Rapt

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and that was
the day she stopped speaking
abruptly
out of the blue
without warning

and the silence
hit the rooms like tunnels
occasional echoes of laughter
held only in memories

no songs
nothing

just silence

just a long, accepting
breath that understood
how very few were
really listening
not with ears
but with heart

and so she bathed
in the rapt absence
of her own voice
ringing melodic
angel choirs
in the corridors of
her mind

and she became
one with herself
because in the silence
so much is heard

Vennie Kocsis