He was born right into a storm, lightning cut up the summer season sky, in a
village the world had not but heard of.
The midwife referred to as it a foul omen, his mom referred to as it an indication. Your first
life started in a storm, underneath open sky.
One winter night time you ran your hand alongside a cat’s again, and the
darkness cracked open with sparks.
Your mom warned the home might burn.
You have been already chasing what you realized: Mild would return.
Your second life got here underwater, within the present deep. No mild,
no air, the river pulling you underneath,
the floor closing above you with out a sound, and
one thing in you refused to sink or sleep.
Your third life got here on the dam.
The water rose. The wall held you in place.
One flash, you turned your physique and rose again into air, and left
the load of water with out a hint.
Your fourth life got here in stone and darkish. Entombed for a
night time in a mountain chapel,
visited by nobody. Solely silence and the reminiscence of a spark. You referred to as
it an terrible expertise and left it there, untold.
Your fifth life got here in fever,
9 months cholera held you down,
till your father mentioned: Survive, and select your personal floor. You rose.
Not from the prayer, however from the promise he made.
Your sixth life got here in silence, and it stayed.
Each sound lower via you, a clock three rooms away,
a ringing that will not go away, a noise you realized to bear, till you
lived inside that noise and made a house in there.
Your seventh life burned on Fifth Avenue, not your physique, however your work. Not a thief
of fireside, however one who stayed with the blaze.
A contemporary Prometheus, your life’s work turned to ash,
“I need to start once more,” you mentioned, and turned to new methods.
Your eighth life got here on the street.
No storm. No warning. A taxi struck with out a signal. A
sudden influence: ribs breaking, breath gone.
No diagram this time. Solely the physique, gradual to maintain up.
The ninth life got here on quiet wings.
That dove discovered you at nighttime, and your spirit rose. She did
not transfer. A beam of sunshine fell from above.
The life you wouldn’t return from, the one you liked.
Your mom thought you had 9 lives, 9 shut
brushes with dying.
Every shut name, a lesson. A hand that will lead you out of the
darkness and into the dynamo of everlasting mild. The world earnings
from the thriller of your thoughts,
Upon your creativeness we stand.
