To hold things inside, to
withhold all those simple
thoughts that rise like
bubbles to the surface, all
those feelings that bloom
in whichever intense shades
they embody as though
they were balloons all
filled with transparent life
barely contained by ebullient
hues, is to kill oneself, breath
by breathe, stealing moments
from a possible future.
To break out, to learn how to
speak, how to walk while
looking at more than
the uneven path is to enrage
death itself, which will fight
for recapture and, God
willing fail, but only after
battle wounds have bled
into the free earth and
paid, ironically, for grace.
Not Quiet Any More 