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.