poem
The fence is high, The weeds…
2 min read
The fence is high, — The weeds grow deep.
The fence is high,
The weeds grow deep.
I feel the sting,
The secrets I keep.
This place is not for me,
A weary, aching plea.
I must find the gate,
Before it is too late.
A whispered word,
A door held shut.
The noise is gone,
A healing cut.
No echoes here,
No phantom fear.
My own voice rings,
On silent wings.
The heavy chain,
The rusted lock.
My heart beats slow,
Against the clock.
I loosen my grip,
Let the pieces slip.
The weight is less,
A soft caress.
The sun peeks through,
A gentle ray.
My wounds begin to mend,
Day by day.
A quiet strength,
Through every length.
The past fades slow,
I start to grow.
The spinning wheel,
The endless round.
I break the spell,
On solid ground.
The system's hold,
A story told.
I walk away,
To brighter day.
The colors fade,
The mask I wore.
I find my face,
And ask for more.
My truest self,
From dusty shelf.
A spirit bright,
Bathed in new light.
The mist begins,
To lift and part.
A hopeful dawn,
Within my heart.
A path unfolds,
Brave and bold.
The first step taken,
New life awoken.
A sacred breath,
A whispered prayer.
Release the old,
Beyond compare.
Let burdens fall,
Heed freedom's call.
The heart can soar,
And ask no more.
The world expands,
A canvas wide.
With open arms,
I turn the tide.
The lesson learned,
The page is turned.
I am allowed,
To move forward, proud.