Cutting the Rope

You walk to the end of the pier,
and then carry your belongings,
a few choice things
made of memories more than value.

You hold them high
as you wade to your craft,
protecting these few things
that are wha who you are,

all that is left
from the war of dominion that nearly claimed your soul.
The things that are left behind have been tainted
by the bruises, scars, and thievery.

Most die there, in that place of false value and lies.
A few become madmen and kill,
But you have chosen the wiser path,
to set sail, to claim your own advent

and trust the tides and winds,
to trust what is left of your soul
to be more powerful than anyone, save you,
imagined.

You reach your craft. You clamber aboard.
You breathe in the air. There is freedom in it.
You feel the tide tugging you to sea.
No, you say, this is not a fleeing. It is a traveling towards.

You cut the ropes.

 

About this poem

When people are abused, one of three things happen. Either the abused person is forever crushed (happens all too often), or the abused person snaps, or the abused person leaves.

Only one option has possibilities instead of tragedy at its core.

Tom