Purgatory is a Person, Not a Place

Your garment billows in the winds of uncertainty, your eyes, portals to a world far away, to soul’s reckoning, reflect the kaleidoscope of human experience—the hues of joy, the stains of regret, and the muted shades of what lies in between.

The world betwixt is embroidered with emotion, where delicate threads are interwoven in the halls of the heart. A landscape of remorseful memories and a terrain of potential salvation.

In your presence, the ticking clock becomes a rhythmic chant, marking the passage of moments where I grapple with the weight of my deeds. You are the mirror that reflects my fractured self, urging reflections to recommence delight in the dead air of cloudless introspection.

I am a weary, wayward traveler wanting to shed the burden of their past. There, in the liminal space where penance meets possibility, the shores, the four stars, the rush extends a hand- a bridge between the past and the future.

There is no promise of redemption, only as a catalyst, a guide, a harbinger. Once you look into everlasting darkness all that is within can see you too.

Then as I sat with myself, I realized everything in the walls of my conscience. I came forth and embraced the stars. Purgatory is a person, not a place.