for the broken and the bruised

L. Y. Rinn, Malaysia

Scream. Let loose one that shreds your throat.

Guttural. Heartrending. Your cries will fall 

on deaf ears, but so shall it dispel the baltic freeze 

that has taken anchor 

in the marrow of your bones. Pull

                       strands 

                of 

Helios’s dress 

into your outstretched, bruise-mottled arms,

and weave a tapestry an illusion of light and warmth.

He is powerless, here in eternal winter: 

you shall receive no blessings. But when have the odds

ever been stacked in your favour?

There is no Ariadne, no infinitely unr a ve l l i  n  g

ball of thread to guide you out of this labyrinth – Drive 

desperate fist into stone wall and bleed. The blinding pain

will wake you. Crawl, hand over broken foot, in pursuit 

of the slight sliver of light waning at the distant end.

Miraculous oasis or mere mirage? You will never know.

This is your thirteenth labour; your trial of faith. 

To believe in hope is a fool’s quest, so why 

do we willingly kneel before its throne? Hope,

of the darkest hour, is cruel and capricious. 

But who are we, if not fools? 

We, the broken and the bruised.

L.Y. Rinn is a Chinese-Malaysian poet and writer. She is in love with mythology, the beauty of hanfu designs, and magical realism.