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Turn The Key

You open the door,

move slowly inside the darkness,

and before you can even turn the key

your eyes flood with grief that spills over from

all of the misunderstandings that hang so heavy

around your heart and your breath and your tired soul.

It’s been long enough now,

this hurt that wants to be despair,

that says to keep driving until you are

away from the pain of people and words

who tear deeply at the soft fibers of your life

that seem fragile and short and threaten to fall apart.

You want to let go,

move gently from what troubles you,

what makes you tremble with fatigue and

sorrow so thick you get stuck in sheets of doubt

that hang like so much lost time and demand that

you question every move, every look, every single thing.

But when you turn away,

from words and people and mortar,

you find that the silence is painfully loud

and cuts at the places where your ideas are

just starting to take shape with soft whispers that

beg desperately for you to hear and to follow and trust.

So you try with grace to be still,

to kindly remove what doesn’t serve you,

what drains and steals and quiets with such

heart wrenching fear and greed that when you

open the door and move slowly inside the darkness

your eyes spill over with grief before you can even turn the key.

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