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Beyond this place where the air is dense with melancholy
and plumes of smoke compress the tension inside exhausted lungs
squeezing out the last drops of hope
until every breath feels choked,
I find a quiet place —
a library of memories collected on dusty ordered shelves
where my fingers run across spines
feeling a lifetime of heartbeats pulsating and wrinkling time
As I walk the aisles, I gather myself and wonder
which stories I will choose to tell,
I look over my shoulder and sense I am not alone
the monsters insist on being heard
like thunder tearing through pages and pages of sky,
troubled times will never fall too far behind
and I’m eager just to get through and get over in a rush,
sometimes I only have a pinch of patience
but the process requires me to wait,
humility peels open my eyes and I see — I can never be too full or over wise
Beyond this place,
I am the keeper of the pen whose ink refuses to run dry.
Starting over is a necessity not a compromise,
storytelling is the story of my life.
I breathe in every sunrise and drink each shot of moonlight,
forget the world and remember
life itself is not a hopeless place
