In a Moment

Who am I to become
when my stories are obliterated?
When I awaken
naked and unarmed
upon a shadow mottled
rocky trail?
It’s not that I want swaddling cotton fantasies.
I want the armor
consistent with my role,
both hard lessons in the real and
the comforting warm arms of happy home.

It’s more than I can bear.
I crack wide open.
Exquisite scenery means nothing;
I hide inside my wound.
There’s nothing left to bind blatant bleeding.
Exposed to this dire world,
my face intently blind.

I sit upon a hillside counting
rainclouds,
waiting for the lightening to strike.
.
.
.
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