Dash this heart
against the rocks--
the lack of urgency
terrifies me.
I'd rather splatter,
shatter, be Icarus
after
than exist
another minute
Like a songbird
stayed
in the hour
before dawn,
and everyone
asleep.
We’re born with one door that’s open to the world.
And by parlaying curiosity into experience, we fold more rooms into our selves. More rooms, with more doors, so the wind might howl through, occasionally reshuffling the blueprints themselves.
But then, it happens.
A resistance steals in, quietly. Closing the doors.
And the effort to open them—or to remember they were closed—becomes a blockade.
We shrink. Get rooted in.
And the wind?
It might rattle some panes, before moving on.
But not his, she thinks.
Not him.
He’s young because he's kept the doors open.
She goes in.
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