storm break.

how many times has this heart thought the apocalypse had fallen?

be it those twelve-year-old days of burned pictures & invisibility times, or the death of boulder family & deserter accusations, the wretched end never shut as this poor heart feared. the clouds blackened and crowded & the lightening roared & the thunderstruck & this heart got drenched with the rain's fire no doubt.

but all those feigned ends just appeared to make way for beginnings, the beginning just had to be born after storm.

those these days the panic stabs deep & breath runs short & lighter you seems dead, this neither has proved to be apocalypse. those panic daggers are losing their edge & air comes easier & brighter you is whispering that it's hiatus may someday break.

now the only thing left to do is wait til the storm breaks.

this heart may be scarred, but as it's said before, they're worn well.

they speak of her battles, both lost & won. they speak of her wisdom & days lived soft & hard. they say that even those wounds that were once oozing & festered, they too healed.

they say that this scar will be deepest, but it will mean freedom when its day to be forgotten reigns.

til then, this heart will wheel forward. til then, this heart will grace while it aches, even on the days it stops beating. this heart will be well & it's scars will be beauty. or at least she has to believe that.