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40 Days

40 Days
by LC


Sin is inside.
And inside… isn’t what it used to be.

I used to keep a fig leaf at the ready.
But one day, I ran out.
And nothing changed.
Weird.

Binary yielding too many zeroes.
Typical ritual. No improvement.
The pastor might have the virus.

Let’s play a game: Metaphor or Meta?
My saliva turned blue, and then black
If I never had a fig leaf, I would’ve confronted sin.
If I never ate the apple,
I might never again be confronted with temptation.


Crafted by external serpents,
Little wave-like functions,
Mimicking oscillation.

They echo in our decisions.
And decisions…
They quietly are the foundation of the Tree of Life.
But we forget what they’re echoing.
And the echo becomes a virus.
It calls itself… the narrator.

Forty days.
Visceral.

No sound.
No light.
No serpents.
No parasites.

Just the heart, and the mind.

When we dive in darkness,
The light gains sharpness

We begin the battle
Shadows Matching internal IQ
Light doesn’t cast shadows on light

Reality was a coin toss.

The manifested serpent,
Devoid of disguise,
Stood between me and the last light in the room.

As if to say:
“You gave me nothing to feed on.
But I still want you to notice me.”

Like—
Just because I don’t see you
Doesn’t make you scary.
You were a part of me
You only exist as a shadow, 
but I can still hear you crying

We stood side by side.
Until I walked away.


I sat in its lap, its grasp
I let doubt consume me
I thought it might kill me.

I turned to dust.

I learned that doubt…
Takes the form of the virus called narrator.

And with that doubt,
We scatter fragments of the real me about.

But I took responsibility.
Tried to restart the universe.

Forty days
And I came out the other end asking:

“This was crazy,
But if it gives me any credibility…”

Where is the moon?

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