When I was sixteen years damned
my youthful soul was froze over
my curtains were always drawn and
even my demons searched for cover.
I cared not for the future being,
the self I would become
I had difficulty finding meaning
in the masterpiece my poetry derived from.
When I was seventeen years damned
I drew the dusty drapes
to find the imprint of a hand
and it's heart lines forecasting fate.
The print was pressed against my atmosphere
and pressured it's stagnant air
my lungs constricted with a different kind of fear
and my hands wrung themselves in despair.
Now, I am one year saved from then
and I have shattered all my windows
I am ready to crawl out of one of them
to face the world's great billows.
I will follow the heart lines on the glass shards
to find my inspiration
Destiny hunting can't be that hard
after seventeen years of meditation.