Afterwards I started feeling
like I am a human
being again.

That's what this place did to me
it brought back my human
in the reflection of the hills,
the lakes, the trees,

but doing nothing to fade the ink.
No one told me that I had been liberated,
I had lost my knowledge.

So I ran free to find my voice last heard
before the years lived with the lasting dead,
the years sat with the lasting hunger,

but I had everything, I had paradise. So I ran -
taking my time to reclaim my body for the hungry,
taking my time to reclaim my voice for the silent.

I stopped living through and started living slowly.
I slept and ate and grew into our new normality,
together again alone.

Running not marching
Breathing not moaning
Swimming not dying
Living not surviving

and my voice lived to tell.
This is where I belong - not alone.

The blossom landed softly
and spread its smile unevenly
- even wickedly -
before over-reaching herself
and fading
into an inappropriate pink
only then to be reinforced
by a cherry drop
and another,
eventually
pooling
and forming a flower
of its own
in full bloom

"If you want to change the world, pick up your pen and write...." ( and pin it up where it can be read)
Martin Luther.

My life experience.
His timeless scripture.
Which is the lens?
And which is the picture?

When I tell you of my story
Will you lean in or turn away
When I share the cause of my hurt
Will you weep or find an escape

Can I trust you with my story
Can I rely on you to stay
Please tell me now not later
It's late, too late for games

If you stay to share my story
They'll be laughter with the tears
But they come with me as a package
With the wounds under repair

You kept on pressing down
as if my heart couldn't break at all
As if the pressure you applied
would not take it's heavy toll

You kept on pressing down
as if my body could absorb
Every blow and every insult
rebounding off your inner wars

You kept on pressing down
not believing I'd react
But now it's me who's pressing down
and you who's on your back

I was not expecting,
given its colour and its texture
and given my preference
for the familiar,
I was not expecting
my hand to take the spoon
to scoop, to lift
the lemon to my mouth
and I was surely not expecting
the ice to wrap my head
in silk
enveloping my shoulders
my arms
and fall into my chest,
forcing my mouth back open
to take in the warmth of the smiles
and expel my laughter
as I reached for more.

Yet my life is not as expected
and not aligned to my preferred,

but oh for more silk and laughter -