I cannot count the years I fought.
To get away from you.
And, as I reach for that always distant pen…
I cannot bring myself to describe the where, the when.
Reaching with youthful hand.
Stretching with gnarled fist.
Someday, freedom will receive its wish.
When the secular hold opens a book.
From new to old.
In great expectation, what was given as half truth.
Will soon become…a healing roof.