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Hills cradled by fog in morning's embrace,
sun awakening the horizon with a gentle stretch,
and in the distance,
the sound of drums,
echoing the steps of a journey home.

She crawled out from under
debris of shattered castles
shards of glass and bricks and mortar
stuck within grooves upon knees and palms.
A broken butterfly, the child defiled,
her skin holding only lies,
disguising the abuse of bruises
that painted their darkness
beneath her fragile surface.

A world of storms,
she was drowning in the rain.
Cried an ocean in hopes that
the tears would carry her away.
Bent up in corners,
hiding from the shadows
of a phantom that wore no face.
A scene on repeat,
staccato blinking
twisted sheets,
she slept with the echoes of screams
from innocence stolen in defeat.


And then the skies broke open,
ablution pouring from the clouds
and a voice that spoke the words
of angels returning home.
It was slow at first,
their quiet whispers drying her tears
and gentle wings, lifting her up.
Arms clasped tight around bent knees
slowly unfolding towards the sky.

She crawled out from under
the darkness of a never-ending night,
with careful steps and wings tucked at her sides.
And in the breaking day,
her own voice softly took flight.
A story told upon her skin,
the sun healing wounds
unseen by the eyes of day,
towards the light she made her way
without a glance over shoulders
at the whispers calling her back.

Rain gave way to morning
as fear became reclaimed by strength.
Out of the bitter fog she walked,
her steps slowly gaining weight,
shedding the demons of memory
that had plagued her for so long.

Through fields she walked
and uphill she climbed,
her feet quickening their pace.
And as salvation appeared before her,
her wings reached out
to carry her away.

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