Written by: Cyndi MacMillan

Open your mind, glimpse the surreal me
where a history of neglect meets the geography of blue,
there I sink under bracken, hollowed by sorrow,
thoughts become patterns that blind.

The surface is heavy, too heavy to reach or break. 

A child is born a thousand times, a thousand times,
though growth is stifled by kind intentions and our 
reinvention becomes burdened by second chances. 
Love and its relatives cover up cold truths, tenderly.

An hour can hold a year, a decade, and each season
swings in an arch of highs and lows, the pendulum
spooling away time. Cracks, both fine and thick,
multiply, intersect at the heart, yet conceal its sum. 

This page offers a freedom that I claim as mine,
fools, pilgrims, executioners may come, ignite 
their long, winding wicks, but I take this territory
as my own. Put away your red pens, read or go.

I will not apologize for my DNA or the dreams
that I bleed. If I seem dim then, go on, enlighten me
or just travel my sad story and you will realize that

dragons there be in lands I refuse to scorn or forsake.

*For our dear Catie, poet extraordinaire, a quiet genius who is beautiful just as she is and who has always been a light in the Soup with her acceptance, sincerity and compassionate nature. What I have always seen in you is grace and wisdom.

I don’t want a placement.

I just hope that you see that I saw.