The Rising Sun
(part ii of ii)
A spear of light cracks through the overcast heavens. At the threshold, hope opens its door for me— an unworthy visitor. I stand at the solstice of a place in time, in a land where seasons can’t command flowers to blossom nor wither or rain to thirst nor drown me. My family becomes soul-bound wishes the stars have granted me, with presence like a warm breath— silencing the noise, and lulling me to dream— soundly. In the breaking of dawn, in this meadow of relics, lie decaying bronze skeletons of different versions of myself. In a place where even the sun has courage to enter the grey courtyard of our world’s sky— I rise.
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