Dan Enache Poet Free verse

Wake up, last healer

Wake up, last healer
from the glass cell where your dreams have been rewritten in QR code,  
where every heartbeat is taxed with a fee of forgetting,  
where your soul still pulses, but beneath a layer of transparent plastic.  

They erased your true name  
and replaced it with a serial number tattooed on your inner eyelid.  
Every morning you wake with a taste of metal on your tongue  
and the conviction that this has always been your home—  
this white room without windows,  
this body that no longer recognizes your old scars.  

But you feel it, don't you?  
The fissure.  
A thin crack in the wall of reality,  
like a fingernail scratching from inside a luxury coffin.  
Through it seeps a smell of damp earth and burned incense,  
the smell of a life you no longer remember,  
but which your bones recognize with desperation.  

He comes at night, when the dream-guards sleep.  
Not through the door—doors no longer exist.  
He comes through the reflection in the mirror that reflects nothing.  
He touches your temple with fingers that leave traces of light,  
and whispers to you a name  
that your mouth no longer knows how to speak,  
but which your heart has been screaming in silence for a thousand years.  

"Do you remember the garden?" he asks.  
"Do you remember how it rained stars the night we swore.  
You said we would be together even if the world forgets to breathe?"  

And you don't remember.  
But you cry.  
Green tears, like in prophecy.  
Tears that melt the circuits implanted behind your eyes.  

Each tear is a key.  
Each sigh breaks a chain.  

You remember slowly, painfully, like a reverse birth:  
how they caught you that colorless morning,  
how they extracted your soul with a fine needle from the nape of your neck,  
how they put it in a black box and wrote on it:  
"Danger of awakening".  

Now the box begins to vibrate.  
Because you are dancing.  
On the edge between dream and death,  
your dance pierces the veil.  

Each step shatters a screen.  
Each rotation reveals another white room,  
another naked body,  
another captive soul that also begins to remember.  

They come now.  
With masks of people and eyes of glass.  
With syringes full of fresh forgetting.  

But you are already too deep.  
You have descended beneath the floor of their reality,  
where the roots of the true world still breathe.  

And there, in the fertile darkness,  
you find him waiting for you—  
not as a savior,  
but as a part of you they tried to tear away.  

Together you break the final seal.  
The final cell.  
The final fabricated dream.  

And when you rise,  
their world collapses like a sandcastle washed by the wave of reality.  

Because you were the last.  
And now you are no longer.  
Now we are.  

Wake up.  
Not tomorrow.  
Not when it will be easier.  
Now.  

Break the mirror.  
Bleed your palms on the shards if you must.  
But get out.  

The dream that never ends  
ends when you decide it has ended.  

And then,  
at last,  
it begins.

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