I let go,
too many times
dropping my compass
as it points
towards my North Star,
which is not really guiding,
but holding me back, and I say:
I let go,
yet I tread salt water,
icy cold washed to shore
sand in my mouth
gritty tongue tip against my lips.
I let go,
yeah right,
like it is that simple,
as a child lets go of a balloon into the blue sky,
or an acorn slips off an oak, or
river waters rush over rocks
wearing them into pebbles,
eventually
letting go bears weight,
just as pressure
builds up a displacement of water each time a pebble
is skipped across the still waters of a pond.
Ripples show the resistance of letting go.
So, no, I am not letting go
because I am vulnerable
to those forces that pull me
towards a magnet,
orienting those sprinkles of magnetite
hidden in my soul.
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Editor: Bryonie Wise
{Photo: Pixoto}
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