Curling up, womb-like, huddled

into self, folded, edges tucked,

neatened, no frayed thoughts

which could escape, held in

place, surrounded by the skin

of denial, nourished, fed, and

nurtured by placenta of hope,

sightless, without breathing, or

any sense of being separate,

individual, other than the place,

where time held, wrapped, and

denied escape, refused release,

promising only that one day,

even greater forces would

emerge, take hold, and push

me back into the heaving,

world, of beating reason,

where mind and heart would

hold hands, befriend the lost

returning Self, call for the

fatted calf to be sacrificed,

and in the doing, restore to

being, that which had been

denied, and was now, reborn.

About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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