Shattered Stone

Inside a sarcophagus of stone,
I have dwelled,
a hard place in which to learn to live,
no breath taken, heart stilled, 
where all living shrinks down,
behind skin and soul, 
to be bound in hieroglyphic wrappings
designed by others.
Onlookers believing 
the pretense they wish to see--
as I stopped struggling for air,
a mimic of the beating rhythms of life,
accepting the coldness of the stone.

Any warmth transitory as the sun
in its travels from
season to season
from rise to set,
in these years 
I have known only coldness
after any fleeting glimpse of warmth.

Such a bitter coldness--
though none would think
I lived encased within stone,
so life-like my hieroglyphic mask,
a masterful mimic I had become.

Until stone cracked,
by mountain winds and sun,
falling in splintered shards,
crumbling to dust ‘round me.
My tattered, faded wrappings
torn, hanging loosely.
Until a hand, as if in possession 
of long forgotten, ancient magic,
should touch long dead embers,
and in touching rekindle flame,
swirling within, spiraling outward 
warmth that does not die
upon the withdrawal of touch. 

A heat lingering, warming still,
stirs hunger once thought dead to life.
Sweetness pounds a rhythm out—
starting a heart to beat again,
blessed breath returns 
to deflated lungs,
the shallow breath, the weak pulse 
hold ancient power,
leaving flesh and blood and bone
to move in life again,
a life reclaimed from the stone
of gray filled years.

Cautiously, hesitantly, 
I step over the dust of shattered stone,
making my way toward the touch 
that carefully, tenderly removed
my tattered hieroglyphic bindings,
allowing me to move freely
within my own skin.

There trembles within,
a longing I never sought to find.
Hope rises and takes Fear 
within its embrace,
transforming it to joy,
as I extend my hand
to the warmth of you.