Revival.
Like a ball and chain, our stuff weighs us down,
tied tight around one's ankles, it mars our movement forward.
One lurching step after another, our ease and grace becomes a lumbering task.
Today, however, it has all been given away.
The reminders of a Prosperity Hive. The ties to old relationships.
The past now being put properly in its place.
Now, a fire awaits, to burn through
the years of writing,
pounds of paper, fading photographs, mementos
of a me I once was, someone who no longer exists.
Transmuting all that was into a fiery pit, the
glowing embers of transformation consuming
what will never bee again. In the morning, as I climb a
local mountain to ring in the dawn of an Easter sunrise,
a Phoenix will rise from
the ashes.
Still, this death is a tough pill to swallow, yet coming from the lips of a sweet
sister who has always accepted me for where I am,
"You are lighter, Cara," she said last night.
"Even your writing is reflecting this."
And, I RECEIVE.
I RECEIVE.
