We are

Only who

We are

Once we’ve outrun,


Bled dry,

The relentless


Of who we pretend to be.


Only once

The masks are stowed

And the shackles of pretence

Break under the duress

Of ceaseless, raw

Barebone and bloodied knuckles,


Can we finally elude

Those self-constructed captors,

Running towards familiar horizons

On empty lungs

& deadwood legs,

Heaving forward

On the hollow-bone wings of brittle Hopes.


By the time we cross

That tenuous edge

And the muffled demands

Of Death and Desire

Are drowned in the chatter

Of springtime gusts

Flowing through fresh forests,


All most of us can manage

Is to crawl back into bed

And drown out the taste of gunpowder,


Only to discover

That a headful of silence

Brings a special kind of pain.


But you’ve fought wolves

And run entire marathons

Right where you stand.


Don’t forget

To celebrate.

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