The Weight

‘What is calling for my fare, my tithe. Does the voice come through my Soul, or from the darkness that erodes. Sticky, cold, damp and old. Rotted. Fallen from the flesh, no longer useful or nurturing, waste, ill begotten days. Just there, is the whisper of purpose and sought. There waiting for my witness. Even more so for my exit. Coming into the light, slowly opening my eyes. Adjusting to the lack of weight. At first unnoticed, then all at once in one sweep, like air to lungs or water to drain, vacuumed in one release. Free.’

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