Cancer of the SouL
It began as an error— not pain, but a thought folding the wrong way and refusing correction.
Belief turned inward. Memory learned to bite. Silence bruised.
Inside me, a cancer studied devotion: it memorized prayer only to empty it. It pressed against the idea of God until doubt bled.
I asked—without ceremony— why give a heart the intelligence to erase itself. Why grant meaning and make it perishable.
Night answered by water.
A ship opens in the Pacific. Metal yields. The ocean does not rage; it receives.
I am what remains. The body afloat. The mind releasing its names. Stars above— a tribunal already decided.
Grief speaks then. It breathes through scorched lungs, utters words sealed with embers. Each sinks faster than the last. Faith is no longer belief but reflex.
Sunday arrives. Bells ring for a God who may exist or may be the last idea we refuse to bury.
At the edge of annihilation, light appears— not as answer, but as instruction: continue.
The cancer fails because it cannot erase the question. Even ruined, the soul still inclines toward meaning.
This is not victory. It is resistance.
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