Poetry Is My Protest: Poem #10

Risk is never dressed so beautifully as when we dream of her from afar, as when she adorns the lips of poets and preachers whose campfire tales dance madly upon the shadows of young hearts.

She flickers in the fire light, giving only a glimpse of her features.
We close our eyes so she lingers, radiant as we remember the womb.

Her image falling as our night's last embers digest their wood.
By morning she disappears
And we return to all that feels safe
and all that is properly placed.

When again she stands before us
woven of words
formed of clay, of dried leaves and garland.

She gives no promise or portent
No call or coercion
And never have we felt more like ourselves
Than when we follow her past our own translucent skin.