Recovery
"It could kill you," they told me.
But I told them I'd rather be alive, than be afraid to die.
"You might be hurt," they said.
But I told them I'd rather soar once in freefall, than fear the landing.
"You have responsibilities," they told me.
And they were right; I have the responsibility of opportunity,
Opportunity to live freely, to breathe, to try, to love openly, to risk, to experience.
"But what will you do if--?" they tried to ask me.
I cut them off, and answered that I would simply continue,
And dust myself off and continue again, and laugh at what I learned.
I lied.
I found myself afraid.
I hurt, and shed hateful tears of passion-searing pain.
I saw those around me hurting, and could not help.
I had said I would dust myself off and laugh and play again.
I lied.
Instead, I greedily sucked at the hot red nectar of my wounds,
As if it alone were the ambrosia that could nourish me.
I sat in my dust and cried.
But then, the dust got sneezy and cold and not much fun.
And so I brushed it off, and looked around.
The tears were gone--when had that happened?
The sun was shining, blue skies beckoned.
And so I stretched new wings, and soared again.
Return to the Library.
Return to the Front Door.
E-mail me at Weavre_@hotmail.com.