A temple in my palms

I’ve ended it. I am no longer distracted by these sensations of upset. These reverberations watching the pain ripple west of my doorway, puddling ‘neath the dark words of melancholia. Resilience has risen a temple in my palms.    
 
This frown that is coercive no longer wilts my face.    
These tears that are unbidden evanescence into salt.    
I will slather whatever salve I can dip my fingers into  
to soothe this bruised body.    
   
I propel; flattening these wrinkles beneath my feet.  
My footsteps are priming a pathway before me.    
I tread with a heat that chars the cobblestone; chaperoning restoration as a tonic to be drank at each checkpoint. To reconnect the mind with the spirit. To shake loose the crust that binds the hardened layers of miscellaneous regret. Swept into a pile of debris to classify my verbs.  
   
We, resilient, are inclined to imprint wisdom upon sailors. To sail as the crow flies. Stream north and carve deep, even though some nights it is far too easy to circle back to linger in the ache.    
Under the moon, the glimmer of ire may feather our shoulders.    
Under the moon, the aroma of stagnancy may perfume our vigour.    
But the sun will rise to kiln the gloom that blackens our ivory— and polish our stone into gems.    
   
As if endeavour we’re a tome to be filled in by the sages. Only then would I allow the immersion of knowledge to prick my eye.