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  • Writer's pictureMichaela

Walking Through

The first door opened, taking water with it

And out I came through crimson, screaming to breathe

What was other than water and still I think

I might be able to inhale instead of drink

I've never quite made peace with air So much colder than where I started

Heavy when it sits, congealed with miasmatic traumas

Taking shallow breaths through covered face

Enshrouding well against the sure attrition

The second threshold came when we were left

To pick up the pieces, holding them in hands

They cut to ribbons...and away we bore them,

Tucking them in corners while hoping we could But the shards were shattered further Our hearts hurt and without nurture The 'we' persisted though fractured without a common foe Until each became an 'I', ten ways to go.

On through doors persisting I kept drifting,

Learning, changing, growing, breaking, healing...

Dowsing to locate my dreamt-for sacred wellspring

And finding why I was along the way.

A new door stands open in the mountains here before me; I can see waves in the river, trees in the meadow, Can feel the breeze coming down the hollow, Rustling the branches and long grasses

Can see my shadow reach through the stiles

I can finally close this door behind me.

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