Here I wait for
the future to afford
me all the dreams
and destiny I
call forth.
Oh lord, hear my pleas
I so long to stop being a sick man
To breathe into the loss
To keep finding myself lost.
Now here I am waiting for your special magic,
so that I may not go insane,
and recover and uncover
all the wounds
hiding underneath me.
Then, from the mist
of the myths
walling in my mind:
“My child,
you’ve been suffering for a long time
unsure fully why
only recently have you really come to know
it will take time to peace it back together.
There is no finish line
just fewer maladaptions
to trip you up
as you more easily
jog down the boulevard
of unmet,
unfaced dreams.
You are more
than these
bitter winds.”
Clay The Scribe 