He split the sky with his silence.
No thunder, no storm—
just the sharp sound of absence
cutting bone from boy.
His hands were rivers of rust.
He bled discipline into dirt,
buried truths in me
like plague seeds in spring soil.
He never called it love—
he called it strength,
and I wore it like a wound
too deep to close.
He taught me how to curse
without speaking,
how to strike with my shadow
before my flesh.
Where his heart should be
was a black flame,
and I warmed myself beside it,
burned, blistered,
reborn.
Now I walk with his whisper
threaded through my tendons;
architect of ache,
the iron ghost who taught me
how to bleed with purpose.
Eric McCormick is a poet and metaphysicist whose work explores the intersections of myth, ritual, and personal transformation. His writing draws on esoteric systems including runic sorcery, energy work, alchemical herbalism, and erotic transmutation. He walks the shadows of rural Illinois, where he balances gardening with occult study and poetic practice.
Published 6/12/25