Released

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Released from the tomb, from the Winter which froze you,

Freed from the Dark, from the fears which enclosed you,

Raised from the earth, from the cells that opposed you,

Green with the gleam of creation;

Vanquish this shell, this mere skin that confined you,

Stretch past the trials that sought to unbind you,

Run to your Saviour, whose heart bled to find you,

Fly toward heaven’s ovation.

My heart aches tonight, but I know that you are in the Presence of perfect Love at last, and that I cannot begrudge you, my sweet friend…

In memory of Marcy Payne

 

 

 

 

The Beauty in the Mess

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Within each crease, beneath each scar, and etched in every vein

Her petals form a tale alive with hope carved out of pain;

Though deeply marred, disfigured, torn, her beauty proves to me

The choice to bloom despite her wounds is what has set her free.

I read within imperfect folds a novel penned by grace,

For harshest hurts transformed, redeemed, become the very place

Where subtle hues and fragile scent, those glories forged by stress,

Release our truest, highest self – the beauty in the mess.

 

 

Prison Break

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One day sun will melt the bars,

Open doors and mend the scars,

Free your spirit from your chains –

Winter’s just the labour pains.

The Keys

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When the hard work came

and fingers fell flat

in dyslexic stumbles

at the stern reminders

of the metronome

who eyed her sharply

over dog-eared pages,

it didn’t feel as though

she had been handed

the keys to the kingdom.

It would take thousands

of chromatic notes to scale

that mountain, thousands

of butchered melody lines

to bind chords of muscle memory

and visual acuity into

harmonious union,

inversions ringing

as theory sang its way

into practise.

She couldn’t tell you

when the notes began to stir

something more than

soured milk in her soul,

when the melodies

sank into her bones

and played her heart-strings

in tones of salvation songs;

all she knows is that

these keys have unlocked

Rapunzel’s gate,

releasing the Muse,

and fingering their well-worn

skin ignites her own

with a song

that beats in her breast

with the sound

of her own

pulse.

In the Breaking Place

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She raises weary hands high,

knowing that if she aims for

heaven, she just might touch God.

.

Tendons stretch beyond breaking

point, in the places  where pain

collides with grace; she feels buds

.

Tear and in the ripping, birth

laughs at the Fall, defies this

gravitational downward

.

Spiral, dictatorial

dead-weight. Thirsty soul seeks sun

and in the breaking place, blooms.

 

 

 

Far From the Tree

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When Apple first fell

from the Tree, she bobbed

along on her sea

of forgetfulness,

oblivious to

the bruises on her

backside, pockets of

pus hidden by a

polished red skin. She

named her world Stunning,

and made plans to suit.

.

Tucked in the shadow

of those gnarled roots, her

gnarled senses labelled

sickly vapours ‘air’,

decomposition

‘bed’, insect-breeding

swamp ‘home’. Belonging

lulled feelings into

a caricature

of the love she read

about in novels.

.

But the day she rolled

outside canopy

limits, beyond the

reach of Eden’s bite,

sun-seared retinas

peeled the picture bare –

twisted trunk and sour

fruit and warped world-view

became as glaring

as raw contusions.

.

Now she rolls, rolls, rolls,

far from the madding

shroud, far from the reach

of branches carved like

talons from deformed,

wormy wood. Far from

the Tree, in a patch

of pure light on grass

greener than life, she

sows a single seed.