Once upon a time, there was something.
Spinning around in a moment.
Settling into a home.
Brushing colors into spaces.
Pulling on words.
Speaking from the distress.
Neither chosen nor ready for.
A storyteller within a story, nonetheless.
Time said good-bye but that something stayed anyways.
Became a memory.
A path in the home.
A call pointing to the wound.
A different name but with the same approach.
Projecting yesterday's survival like a beacon.
Still unwanted and unsafe.
A storyteller within a story, nonetheless.
Now that something is a fixed feature in the home.
Original material pushing with a heavy fist.
An experience crossing lines.
Sometimes rushing and sometimes steady.
Eyeing crumbs of happiness in the corner.
A dramatic monologue practiced over time.
Keeping pace just the same.
A storyteller within a story, nonetheless.
A solitary something met in another place.
A recall rising above other things.
A case that is loud but not necessarily clear.
More contact with shame than love or so it would appear.
Supports painted smiles as a niche in the darkness.
A fearless introduction amongst fresh moments.
And haunts different pages for free.
A storyteller within a story, nonetheless.
In the upright, something is still something.
In the face down, it's still something.
In every weather, still something.
With colors, something.
With a parade, it remains.
And no matter the day, well it's still there.
But that storyteller within a story isn't speaking as if we are the punchline.
It's stuck in a space that we keep trying to make up for.
As if we could lose that weight by getting somewhere else.
But tomorrow won't say anything new as long as something continues to bloom.
At least not until epic lines about being someone in the somethings are to be included.
For what calls the time doesn't pull the strings on the value of a home, and a wound always feels different than a scar.
Have the best day, POSSIBLE for you. Love Always, Heavell
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