So the world unfolds slowly like Michelangelo's dream inside your heart. One thing inside your head and the other outside. Your heart is a dappled snowstorm. Your mind is an archipelago of twists and turns. One boat capsizes, another takes you to the shore. You revisit tropical storms and arrive inside the parenthesis of eclipses. Heaven and Hell are just words. You resurrect your poetry. You make meaning of the unspoken and the unsaid. You live like rivers collapsing inside the arms of the sea, tired of meandering. There is always a thin line between flailing and flying. But you discover your wings. The future is written in the glory of the present tense. So I dedicate these lines to me, to the woman who knows that yielding is not harvest.
*Back in time when I was struggling with weightier issues....
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