Dare I say, a mothers’ recovery. Embarking on the empty seat. I sit down as the little girl who desires the sanctuary. I never wanted to leave it. When the music stops, and the preaching ceased.
I am a girl wanting this place to be home. To prop my tired feet. Rest the strain in my neck. Relinquish the wounds in their various stages. To bleed upon a prayer, only the saints would hear. To know the universe has not forgotten my name. Then and only then I’d come alive.
As if being real is one-half of the transformation. The other conquest is to know it, should another lifetime come and go. I’d still be a writer, after operating on secular things in the dark. I know writing is the turmoil I’ve put my soul through. Nevertheless, it is the one thing whether stranded or bedridden or even now as my quiver is full of children I must write.
To withhold such a flame; would be treacherous severing interpolate faucets that make the ticks work. I’ve seen her in action exploding on the inside, her voice unheard, uninterpreted. Succumbing to vast seas of other voices but unable to express – interruptions of her own.
Krissy Mosley 2016
A Poet's Vision 