Curling up, womb-like, huddled
into self, folded, edges tucked,
neatened, no frayed thoughts
which could escape, held in
place, surrounded by the skin
of denial, nourished, fed, and
nurtured by placenta of hope,
sightless, without breathing, or
any sense of being separate,
individual, other than the place,
where time held, wrapped, and
denied escape, refused release,
promising only that one day,
even greater forces would
emerge, take hold, and push
me back into the heaving,
world, of beating reason,
where mind and heart would
hold hands, befriend the lost
returning Self, call for the
fatted calf to be sacrificed,
and in the doing, restore to
being, that which had been
denied, and was now, reborn.
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