Writing Resources from Fifteen Minutes of Fiction
A single threadTimes come when I am blessed to view
My personal past with eyes anew -
Pulled back curtains and open doors,
Which always had been closed before.
The contents often hurt the eyes,
and lack all pretense of disguise,
and though some things I'd like to purge,
a gentle pattern will soon emerge.
Though faint at first, there is a thread,
a common piece of every shred -
It runs through all my soiled clothes;
the more the dirt, the more it shows:
That when I felt alone and "free"
Your hand was there to beckon me.
I cannot claim to know each way, but
I still see clearer than I did yesterday.
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