The cold, steal bars of fear arrested me like a finch – too weary to sing.
Combination codes kept me caged,
stabbing at strings of numbers
desperate to open the door.
The whirling wheel, a manifestation of my mind.
Days of devising and still no escape.

Revelation in rest!
Inspiration in dreams!
Not forward.  Not out.
But up.

Up. Over.  Above.
Too weak to climb.  Too tired to jump.
At the end of myself,
I will be named “lifted.”

Because isn’t our death a public event?
A declaration of our end published in the paper
A proclamation that I am no more
A release from responsibility
An awakening into inspiration
A new life of living

Revived with gasps of Truth
Exhaling revelation
Empowered with expectation
The wind of risk rising above the impossibility of a second death.

And there you are – birthing it all with your breath.
Speaking it with your whisper.
All for you.
All for you.