lines of immature cursive
consume legions of pages,
words seeping with hurt and anger
scattered with confusion and fear
and visible glimpses of aloneness and sadness,
hold brief peeks of rare joy and acceptance,
survival was ink on paper
and holding a far-fetched dream,
each word a fieldstone building the wall,
enclosing the soul,
each page a droplet in the brewing thundercloud,
each journal a hardening of a shell to withdraw to,
years of screaming through the words
and attempts to have them viewed
fell in front of raised covered eyes,
the masquerade stood for decades
fear and hurt remained strong in their grip,
still a black sheep cloaked in red
to be shunned for the past,
the nightmares of then
fill the waning moments of darkness now,
to explain to the circle
brings the sense of being a nuisance,
the words remain hidden,
only temporary glimpses appear,
healing comes slowly like the thickening of ice over a lake,
words spoken to Him above
in lines of prose and prayer
usher in solace like the change of seasons,
and the past haunts that drive today remain
a shadow along the road.
