Poem: True



And when no one else believed you could fly,
when you were a pile of broken rubble and little more,
trying to refit the pieces into some semblance of solidity,
some semblance of what you once were,
those closest never believed.
Including yourself.

And yet, you continued. Even without a destination,
every memory of what you once were
lying on the ground like so many ashes,
unrecognizable, the body no more than a painting,
no more than an illusion, full of rubble and ruin,
you continued, remembering God, remembering the promises,
remembering each cut and knife twisted,
each flame lit to the edges to assure you never rose from the ashes.

And yet, you continued.
you pieced together things never meant to go together,
you admitted defeat, you found new parts and fit them to the old.
Some fit well. Some did not.
It was a hodgepodge. No lie. A mess
that walked and talked and worked, a tribute
to the power of habit, and its ability to continue
long after death. A living myth.

And all the while, you continued,
You whittled, You trimmed, You threw things out.
You made old things new and discovered parts of you
you had forgotten. Wounded perhaps, but just, just
You made old things new, and new things settled in,
began to feel alive. Possible.
But still, no one believed.

Some paid lip service, mixed with darts
and the carving of sharp knives.
Some were more direct, aiming their blunderbusses
for your tenderest parts, for they knew them well.
It was slow work, the walking wounded, determined to heal
even in the midst of new wounds.

And still, you continued.
Silly man. Day after day.
Two steps forward. One step back.
Repeat ad infinitum.
Bones and sinew, feathers and skin,
wings, against all probability.
Untested, Fragile, Fearful.

Then one. Then another. Then her.
and finally, you You knew. Believed and

And here you are, another gull on the wind.

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