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  • Lorraine Johnson

[175] Sodden

When you have no words

or poetic prose

and the silence deafens

and your world becomes small

and yesteryears disconnect

and you find you, nowhere

even while somewhere

even glancing back looking,

looking for your you,

it begs a pause.

How do I smile?

How do I laugh?

Who's by my side?

Where do my footsteps walk?

And in which direction do they move?

Toward yesteryears?

Toward a tomorrow not yet seen?

Toward an enchanted forest

with its earthy scents and majestic trees,

or to the dune-colored cliffs

and sandy rhythmed shores?

Where is my you?

With thousands of footsteps walked,

umpteen bursts of laughter and a river of tears

unfound wisdom does not quite appear.

My you is stuck, not knowing its shape

or value in the morrow.

So I sit, stilled—brazen-faced.

Taking time to dry my sodden wings

so I can fly free, again,

without the walls of yesterday

or fear of what's unknown.

I am drying my wings, I speak

I am leaning in, shifting toward,

my enlightened you.


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