Sometimes, we find better selves like lost
toys, as if we’ve dusted cobwebs
to reveal old ribcaged hearts
garbed in younger, rawer
flesh that didn’t scar
didn’t callous
didn’t let
rot set
in.
In
those same
spaces, know
it’s not that you
have lost an anchor
gone to rust, decay and
atrophy like roots inscribed
with could and was, but realise
that rot can feed the germ of blossom.
Header photograph © Andrew Hall.
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