If From The Ashes We Rise

Every single time the wind blows the house moans.

It bends slightly lower.

One day a strong gust

or perhaps even a gentle breeze

will whisper across the planks,

rattle the panes

and the whole structure will fall.

Collapse on itself.

Wood and metal,

photos and memories

tossed into a heap of rubble and anguish.

And misplaced dreams.

And circling

hovering above it all will be a cloud.

A heavy, suffocating storm of gritty particles.

We will be blind as we stagger in.

We will stumble and cough

grasping and fumbling for something real.

Something substantial.

Something partial or complete.

Anything to ground us and show us our way.

And we will grasp it tightly.

Nails chipped,

fingers bruised.

We will fall out of the rubble,

maybe onto a heap ourselves...

of our former selves.

Changed forever.

Some for the better.

Some for the worse.

And we will keep on going all while holding

desperately onto that trinket.

That jagged piece of the past that remembers it all.

All of the time before.

It hurts, but we don't let go.

It hurts, but we don't let go.