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Like wings,
the reclaiming of the dark hours
arches across the rosy-eyed lull
of not knowing,
plumed in possibility
and iridescent visions,
flourishes of sacred geometry
stirring what once felt like
the night would go on without end.
There’s a sweet pain in awakening.
The voice of half-hearted
reckoning of day’s peak
catching on a sob
for the unfinished,
or for the beloved dreaming
that got defaced by the truth.
The inert limbs slowly embracing
a suffusion of fire.
There is that moment in turning
from what had once meant something
towards what is promised,
when the squaring of shoulders
exposes the symmetry of sound
catching up with the light,
imperfect form flanked
by efforts of divinity
to concede that it might
have been too dismissive of wisdom
coursed through the flesh.
It stretches behind you like wings.
Flight is nothing but the feeling
that touches you when
the sky becomes right-side up
and comes into view.

“Dream” by photographer David Charouz


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