Coming Home.

Coming Home.

She runs from the pain; the grief; the too much.
Fleeing, she feels, is freeing.
Just me, she says; I can do it.
She leaves it behind her, she thinks.
Clinging to her very being, it stays.
For a time she is free.
The darkness is embraced.
The emptiness is relief.
She convinces herself.
She is alone, not free.
She is hiding, not living.
The grief, hard before, now unbearable.
Her freedom, now chains suffocating.
The stillness, now emptiness.
Darkness becomes endless.
Sighing, she remembers.
Joy, laughter, peace.
Her journey is frantic, but sure.
Lightness creeps in, each passing mile.
The quiet remains.
Not yet, it says. Not yet.
Touching each face with wonder;
a moment in time, she hides  in her heart.
Resting, she hears the Light.
Eyes closed tightly, she searches.
Unseeing, she believes.
Sorrow becomes contentment.
Darkness explodes with Light.
Believing, she is free.
Joyful, she is Home.

Susan Wheeler Smith
September 12, 2012

2 thoughts on “Coming Home.

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