My Way Out
by Christy Desermeaux

Healing is taking too long. I‘ve been waiting like a child
who is the last to be picked up from camp.
Doubt and fear enter my mud-puddle of lost dreams.
I cast my coin into the darkness.
A deep plink in the cold clear water.
The chill runs up my spine, bitter and piercing.
Hope rises and falls in my throat as I give voice
to the dreams I shelter.
Nobody points or mocks nor do they believe.
One day I stand on a crumbling ledge,
high above my former self looking like an eagle.
I wonder if she can catch me if I have no wings?
Often I am alone, surrounded by thorn bushes.
Dirty, angry, and alone without myself.
Where is the path that brought me here?
I search for years and get gouged, damaged, and tired.
In the center of the clearing I cry futile tears.
Now here I sit tugging at the grass, my breath slow,
and lift my head, to see the veiled path to my life.