Sparkatale

I am from empty,

    From cold and from rain.

I am from the lump in my throat.

    I am from threadbare scarves

and worn out emotions.

    I am from the sting in the corner of my eye

and from that voice in my lizard brain

    that tells me not to cry.

 

I am from depression,

    from the aching hole in my chest.

I am from a gasp just above the surface

    then

thrown back beneath the waves.

    I am from lush green grasses

that cannot be played on

    without fear of getting wet.

 

I am from the written word;

    light as the touch of a feather

but spoken with the crushing weight of

    meaning.

I am from a turning page,

    always there and filled with:

understanding,

friendship,

interest.

    I am from endings.

 

I am from alone.

    Alone protects me.

Alone is my friend.

    I am from never lonely.

Alone does not entail grief,

    nor regret,

nor lost hope.

    Along entails comfort,

    and silence,

    and peace.

 

I am from constant,

    from routine and home.

I am from the short end of the stick,

    torn from my constant tree.

I am from from radio silence,

    and whistling winds,

and the whisper in my constant

    tree.

 

My constant tree has been pruned,

    set into an all-consuming blaze.

But from the ashes rises

    a phoenix,

so from the ashes I shall rise.

    I am from fire.