is it too late?

I can feel it,

the matured, clarified thought edging around my wild spaces,

old as my bones,

each thought echoing from ages past,

my scripts perfected, but … ready too late?

Why can’t I coax them from their monastic silence?

They won’t come free! They’ve never been bound …

They bubble up in my throat; my teeth clamp shut.

I hold my tongue.

I’ll end up biting it off one day if these

blood-stained words ever break free.

I might not have this many wrinkles yet, but there are days when I wonder if I will ever truly let my words free, despite having trained them to return to the cage the moment they are released, one wing always a touch away from the door.

When I reflect on the poems I write, the most common thread is that of breaking free, coming out of the tomb, releasing myself from my self-made cages and climbing free from high towers, but still, I sense I have not released the words that have the potential to push me so far past my fences I cannot return.

I so desire to run into the wild where my words run free, their footfall resonating across the earth, pounding the ground, signalling all is well on the surface, time to step onto the soil and let the adventure begin.

And yet, I skirt around the possibilities and see only enemies pacing on my perimeter and army crawl back to my place of safety.


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