Sometimes we have to walk outside, alone,
in darkness, while the light remains unreached
in temporary blindness (source unknown),
with all our thin defences soundly breached.
Nostalgia for my true past dangles me
with ropes around my ankles over crags
of chalk and granite — soft and hardness, free
of sanity’s belligerence in rags.
Those cords then tensed themselves with tightrope grip
on every latent dream to scorch my mind.
So then, instead of playing brinkmanship,
those dreams have bloomed — now no more undefined.
No less than miracles will I accept
as now beyond the margin I have stepped.
© Alan Morrison, 2016