suspended

slowly encased
surrendered
small and still, my prison
there is purpose to this place
i’m protected but hindered
silenced so as to listen

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the cold wind burns my face and blows, its frosty pepper up my nose…

Black are my steps on silver sod;
Thick blows my frosty breath abroad;
And tree and house, and hill and lake,
Are frosted like a wedding-cake.
Robert Louis Stevenson

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of my own making

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I do not touch the ceiling yet.

Where stooped and bent I’ll finish life.

When walls will crush and close around me

and breath will strain along with sight.

With this dawn there’s room for growing;

no chains around my liberty.

So may not the fear of someday

make today feel small to me.

—Lisa Qualsett—