Don’t go there, or so they warned,
for the past is rife with shadows,
ghosts waiting to take your soul.
The future is baying wolves,
their howls cutting the night,
waiting to slice you to the core.
“But what of me,” I asked,
“what of becoming strong,
strong enough to find myself?
What of finding the me who ought to be?”
Leaving the dangling silence behind,
I take to the road
watching for the me who ought to exist,
who ought to be beckoning in the distance.
Ghosts hover along the road’s edge
and wolves cry in the forest’s depths.
I collapse in the dirt,
my fear trembling, quaking,
controlling limbs no longer responding.
my heart ready to surrender
until she who is me calls my name,
not from the road ahead,
but from inside.
©April 2015, Christina Anne Hawthorne