I got this,

I know the way:

like weeds covers the path…

I’ve fallen in the bramble I planted,

tripped over the roots they sprouted,

now on the cold floor of the psych ward,

washed in rusted yellow walls..that talk of melancholy

no not me, I kneel to pluck the weeds

and see the path the sun lent me, as golden bars

enclose gently a storm I crafted

I don’t hear an angel, but feel the comfort of a halo

as the locked mechanics doors, the screams

homeless tirades and the choirs of the restless

melt to contentment, I am free.

was it god?

my singular hope, my wish

is to know when the path has been cleared

until then I will rattle the bars of the cage,

with my song, to harbor those with tired eyes

with this peace, I got freely

I like pie. Writing poetry for me is all done without editing or pre-thought. Enjoy the dribbles of my mind. :D

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