I pull aside the morning curtain.
My childhood face floats by,
stares back and drifts,
lost without a beating heart.
Watch that little soul pour down the cliff,
a waterfall spilling out to cure the drought.
Her center gone, mislead
by those whose words deceived,
she learned to weave an ornate tale,
then settled like dust
in the evening shadows,
clutching a spray of conclusions
the noon day sun,
spun by time,
comes into sight
to give me strength,
makes it possible
to stand in ruby slippers,
to own the place my feet will tread,
be friends again with perception,
and wave good-bye to things that pass.
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