I threw
away
that story -
it was old:
pages worn,
ink fading,
binding frayed,
smell
like the
musty stacks
you found it in.
You were good at
telling it -
you thought you'd
framed my role:
words forming chains
around me.
Now
I am the writer -
my stories are
a light house,
warm calm seas,
fresh dew on paths
the climb past blue
white red green
yellow flags
waving us higher,
breathing
through the heart,
at last.