I piece together my dreams into a new one,
a stained-glass window refracting and reflecting
countless probabilities,
blithe childhood ideas made strong
by a toolbox filled up over time.
education and foundations.
stories I wrote in my preteen years
are stuffed into molding cabinets
to fly high and wild one day
lying dormant till they catch fire and are reborn.

I no longer pray for freedom. happiness is my freedom,
a choice I did not know I had.
eyes scrubbed clean by salt make for good eyesight,
dust cleared by the whirling monsoons of adolescence.
the thorny path is one of enlightenment and suffering
and I have found my roses despite the blood.

tucked away within a black box,
wrapped neatly in white, waxen paper,
pristine as the day it last kissed my skin
the razor occasionally stirs.

after all these years, I finally manage to ignore its call.