Tongariro.

A door has blown WIDE OPEN

inside of my chest.

It lay locked somewhere behind my ribs, 

before my heart, hinged on my side for years,

while I lay paralysed, flat on my stomach,

cheek pressed to the floor, with glassy eyes

desperate to catch as much light

as would tease out from beneath it,

before another day dimmed

and I curled my back to the wall

as mournful sighs overwhelmed

once tender lullabies of promise.



A RUSHING WIND

as strong, and cold as that which blew the plains of Tongariro 

into shard-like slopes, races straight through me

forcing that heavy door hard against it’s hinges,

faster than a bullet train to Tokyo, 

louder than every God-forsaken shout I’ve kept inside my head,

so crisp it feels
like brilliant, white light. 



THE LOCK IS BROKEN

and I will not waste time finding the key

for fear of loss, or imagined gain.

I will lie down. 

My back pressed against the fresh ice

of an unfamiliar, but humbly welcome, day

having crossed the mountain

to merrily slide on my bottom,

down a snow-powdered hill

laughing into the sunshine

of a happy descent.

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