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The way your heart treasures the light
that almost blinded you,
that burned away instead
the cataracts, the sense of smallness
towards which your biases were leaning,
electrified the fences around your comfort zone
and left you with so much less
than what you had when you started
that you could hate it,
but to your credit you looked the other way
and saw a finally unobstructed view
of how you could find your way nonetheless,

the way you could hold the sword
that was forged to destroy you
while assuming to give dignity to your undoing,
hold it with the utmost reverence
and match the perfect edge of the blade
with the iron butterfly grace in your soul
that has received enough blows
another cut could only work in your favor
and render you less damaged

the way the sun exposes
the valleys where
the sadness hides
like paper shadows

you’ve asked the stillness
where your song fits,

and this is its answer.

Image of Amy Winehouse performing live
by photographer Grenville Charles


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