The walls have fallen. The windows are empty.
The roof has collapsed.
Trees grow where floors once spread.
Vines creep everywhere.
From the street you would not know
the ruins are there. They are lost now,
remembered by a few old timers
and explorers like you who stumble here.
You curse the emotions flooding through you.
You like your emotions pure, not mixed.
but you get what you get. Feelings are never controlled,
Sadness at remembering your own abandonments.
Anger. Pride. For you have learned to stand,
to rebuild, restore, recreate, still invisible
from the road. Still seen only by intrepid explorers,
those who wander, lost as you once were,
and find your flickering candles in the windows.
Always open to the stranger in the night,
the scars of it all allowed to show,
a compass of sorts, not of how,
but that. That it is possible.
That there is life after.
That God lives in the broken things. Like you.
At night, you dance by candlelight.
Musical memory in your feet.
a dance to taunt the liars
who see only the ruins they created,
A swaying beauty that invites the beautiful
who cannot believe their beauty.
But you know, with your Quasimodo soul. You know
it is there, your perfect dancing partner.
About this poem
You are more beautiful than you have been allowed to believe. Trust me on this one. I learned it the long and hard way.