My keyboard is a helm…my words, the waters that distract time’s ceaseless demands. Here, the faint sound of a distant, inner cry escapes as a scream in a single sentence. The past is resuscitated with kinder eyes. The healing tonic of visibility is offered to wounds too long ignored. I adorn the broken places in my path with flowers and books. I give hot tea and honey to the girl who got me here, alive. I write, and I am at my alter.
Tangled Lights 
Great imagery! Keep writing!
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