|Writing feels good in that out-of-practice sort of way
||[Jan. 25th, 2011|02:00 am]
Courage never shook in her boots
the way I did
or took her bumps with the road of life
quite like I did.
She knew it
beyond a shadow of a bout
with angry voices
etched in the psyche of a young boy
who cringed as his parents railed--
Derailed before quite reaching
a name scrawled in sharpie on a tacky-backed
What kind of name is "Courage?"
The echo of a baby's cry
leaves the answer in dust,
written with a fingertip
in a window
to be read backward:
Tell your story with your whole heart.
The strength of that beat,
the moment mindful of itself
drowns out harsh voices and throbs in your being
louder than the reverberation of
She and I
walk dark paths
mistaking blindfolds for lanterns,
in cardiac rhythms.
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