The gates that clang shut,
not to trap,
but to keep out the echoes,
what I’ve lost,
what I might become.
a subtle tug,
my hands reach for the grip,
the silent key,
the invisible thread that binds
tearing seams of myself.
every wall, a raw scream,
every expectation a desperate plea,
the storm will pass,
that I won’t shatter again,
into those sharp forgotten pieces.
Within the cage. I see rubble,
built from dust,
A deafening shrill within the mirror,
The veiled façade,
keeps me shielded.
the terror in my grip,
that desperate hope,
mending the cracks,
these walls,
they just might hold.
The Beauty of a Switchblade will always be a free space to read and rest. If these words found a home in you, you can hold the physical weight of my journey in your hands. My debut collection of prose-poetry and original illustrations, Where the Broken Light Falls, is now available on Amazon.
This feels like when you finally close the door to all thats been hurting you. But not in a positive way. More like a survival or protective way
I definitely felt this. I definitely have been there before..