Prologue

I am here to find my voice –

not what tentatively whispers,

but that which commands, yells,

cackles aloud, unashamed of its emboldened presence.

Stripping myself of colorful, painted presentation,

letting the voice emerge from within,

the voice long muffled, smothered,

ignored into near non-existence.

I am here to let it rumble –

let it shake loose it’s chains,

beat on the door and bars of its cell,

trade an inmate’s soiled rags for the solid clothes of freedom

and walk blinking, barefoot into startling sun.

I am here to let it holler from atop a mountain,

echoing into thousands of crevices below,

shaking loose the very rocks it climbed.

I am here to let it beat drums next to a midnight fire

and the upward cascade of flashing lights,

let it shout and freely dance in response.

I am here not to seek out a voice

but unleash what has been bound,

expose the voice long hidden,

give it space, make it wings, watch it fly,

or explode in the glory of a beautiful, fiery mistake.

Prologue
From Falling Season by Tori Lane

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