Alive

The wonders of wanderings,
Fresh through open windows
Into the living space
Of conjectures occupied within
Stalwart temples of hope . . .
My hope, my dream,
No longer a fantasy,
But the FORGIVING taste of reality.
Not a smack in the face,
But a gentle nudge out of nowhere.

A redemption in qualities left to bear the weight
Of an all denying assembly wanting an end,
But now has the desire to live,
And the position of stature to myself
And to no other until
I regain my self.
And I am
For I know the heart I thought I once knew.


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