Soulwork

Like our frames of flesh,
Our souls can sustain dents and cracks,
Harmed by barbed situations and jagged tongues,
Our essence bleeds out of these wounds,
Manifesting as turmoil and angst,
Our internal peace shattered into fragments,

Like flesh they can be knitted anew,
Our nirvana of vitality restored,
But the tools are very much different,
It is not the demesne of the mechanic to fix,
The workshop lies in our own minds,
Meditation and self-love are the utensils at hand,

It takes perseverance,
Listening for the hurts of our spirits,
Taking needle and blowtorch to each wound,
Incense and peace and shadow work,
It’s an ongoing inward pilgrimage,
To get back to ourselves.

Sin-Eater

Before a vital spark can be buried deep,
It must be cleansed,
A soul given its best chance in the hereafter,
So call forth the sin-eater,
This soul worker will consume each lick of evil,
A feast at a funeral,
An ivory plate placed upon the husk,
Bread and grapes and coins pressed into cheese,
A glass of wine to wash down the sins,
The ritual cleanses the dead with knife and fork,
With each bite the deceased soul feels purer,
A spirit growing lighter,
Sanitised,
Absolved,
Saved.

Gaki

I am Gaki,
I died once,
A life spent in overindulgent opulence,
Now I suffer in spirit,
Doomed to unlife existing in eternal famine,
All is fodder,
Unclean or otherwise,
But no myriad feast can cure my paucity,
All of the kings men,
And all of the kings flesh,
Couldn’t sate this demons hunger again,
Nothing can fill this distended belly,
It is hell I assure you,
The pain has dulled all other sensation,
Hell of a worse kind.

Wendigo

Among the great northern forests,
A being of folklore prowls,
All claws and antlers,
An emaciated spirit of famine,
Leathery skin strewn taut over elongated bones,
The very image of a corpse animated,
The pines whisper its name,
Wendigo,

Once a man,
During a cruel winter,
Driven mad by hunger,
Contorted into an abomination,
His mate and cubs became fodder,
But even such a massacre was not enough,
More meat,
Find more meat,

So many have fallen prey to its appetite,
And you may be next,
Sniff the air,
If you smell rot and decay,
You ought to flee posthaste,
The fallen leaves herald its coming,
More meat,
Never enough meat.

World-weariness

Everyone is a spirit.
It pervades everything they are.
Many of goodwill,
Others of cruelty.
Spirits of pleasure.
And spirits of harmony.
Spirits of fortune.
And spirits of vengeance.

Me?
I’m the spirit of world-weariness.
The world no longer means what it did.
The only rays of light are select special souls.
Spirits of companionship,
Spirits of friendship,
Spirits of love.

I am world-weary.