The smoke retreats slightly
and I lift my head, best as I can,
out of the morass

I summon the image
of prison walls. If, after all,
I can imagine standing my ground,
holding out for truth
despite all fierce displays —
if I can affirm that nothing
can remove me from
the atmosphere of Spirit,
then why not here?

What knots of thought convince me
that I should go under,
that I should suffer
until the smoke disperses?
What virtue would it give me
to die from missing
the kiss of fresh air through my being?

No. I’ll fight back.
I’ll stand strong
in the atmosphere of goodness,
I’ll be a place of purity and peace.

©Wendy Mulhern
August 4, 2017