A poem #61 – Identity

And so it seems,
that the pieces this way fall.
Our moonlit lives from northern skies,
come bashfully tumbling through.
Out into the widest world,
in the midst of Fear’s embrace.
So conscious of our naked souls.
So desperate to save face.
Our feverish thrashing of skin,
I beseech it all to cease.
For it is in the letting go of things,
that we find the greater peace.
So here we lay, on rocks and stones,
bearing our bruises to all.
No more shame for what we are,
no more judges to fool.

JP Collins

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