From the Inside


Filled with flames,

daggers, knifes, and swords –
not warm flames,
not soft, welcoming light –
but what is light?

Tell me, I know you cannot talk.

Those around me feel
on guard – matter – life soon
closes – another door
she told me, opened once,

a shiver as I moved closer,
before her face stared when
one vanishes in light.

Dreams began from the
inside – as I wanted to
fly from lessons
learned when Mama died
tomorrow – yet years ago.

Stood by her as she
saw the light, as she
stared into space
we knew – as blood
dripped down her chin

no way Mama could talk
but she had warned me
of the light, years ago
when she too was sent
back to heal old wounds.

Flames and daggers of
day in night –
radiance of natural
light from death –
from the inside, out.

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Angie's Diary