When Worlds Collide


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.

 

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