unwritten, unbound

Maybe this is a moment where poetry fails to communicate the extent to which you matter. But I want to at least try and convince you of the possibilities that are just beyond the horizon. The birds will tell you up there in the sky what they have seen.

Maybe this is a moment
where poetry fails
to communicate
the extent to which
you matter.
But I want to
at least try
and convince you of
the possibilities
that are just beyond
the horizon.
The birds will tell you
up there in the sky
what they have seen.
Just ask them.
They are still flying,
aren’t they?
It must be for a reason.
A good reason.
Even though
they’ve seen it all
their songs continue
their feathers
catch the wind.
And when you look
into the black water
afraid to set sail
ask yourself
if uncertainty
of the journey ahead
is really worse than
what you are certain
of now?
Or is there freedom
and a chance at
coming-to-life
in surrendering to
the mystery?
When you can
only offer
“I’m not sure,
I’m totally empty,
but I’m ready”
the ease of
being
in between stories
unwritten
and unbound
will be the wind
in your sail.
moving you
out into
the mystery
the only place
there is a chance
of discovering
other
incredible worlds
within you.

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