Dead things.
Rotten things.
Of-no-use-to-me things.
They want me to never misplace the memory of them.
They want to control where I place the memory of them.
Ghosts of the past visit me often and whisper in my ear,
"Just wanted to make sure you know we're always here,
"You are ours," they taunt.
"Come fly with us," they want.
And as I stand here, eyeball to treetop, recalling the exhilaration of free fall drop...
I remember too the post flight crash,
On the floor: hopes, dreams, identity - dashed.
"Silly fears!" The ghosts of my past jeer.
"Silly fears!" The ghosts of my past jeer.
"In any cases, it matters not, we control you."
Oh really now?!
I am securing my ancient remembrance; some things I must forget.
Like the pull of darkeness which encapsulates my regrets.
I jump past these things to the origin of truth, the origin of me.
My freedom is not defined by the right to plummet to my death.
Rather, I express freedom by denying my right to make faulty choices.
I tune out your taunts and believe His voice. And then my spirit truly flies, with all rejoicing.
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