image courtesy of Jenő Szabó on Pixabay.com
Inside a sarcophagus of stone, I have dwelled, a hard place in which to learn to live, no breath taken, heart stilled, where all living shrinks down, behind skin and soul, to be bound in hieroglyphic wrappings designed by others. Onlookers believing the pretense they wish to see-- as I stopped struggling for air, a mimic of the beating rhythms of life, accepting the coldness of the stone. Any warmth transitory as the sun in its travels from season to season from rise to set, in these years I have known only coldness after any fleeting glimpse of warmth. Such a bitter coldness-- though none would think I lived encased within stone, so life-like my hieroglyphic mask, a masterful mimic I had become. Until stone cracked, by mountain winds and sun, falling in splintered shards, crumbling to dust 'round me. My tattered, faded wrappings torn, hanging loosely. Until a hand, as if in possession of long forgotten, ancient magic, should touch long dead embers, and in touching rekindle flame, swirling within, spiraling outward warmth that does not die upon the withdrawal of touch. A heat lingering, warming still, stirs hunger once thought dead to life. Sweetness pounds a rhythm out— starting a heart to beat again, blessed breath returns to deflated lungs, the shallow breath, the weak pulse hold ancient power, leaving flesh and blood and bone to move in life again, a life reclaimed from the stone of gray filled years. Cautiously, hesitantly, I step over the dust of shattered stone, making my way toward the touch that carefully, tenderly removed my tattered hieroglyphic bindings, allowing me to move freely within my own skin. There trembles within, a longing I never sought to find. Hope rises and takes Fear within its embrace, transforming it to joy, as I extend my hand to the warmth of you.
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