A millstone had been hung around my neck;
some several years it dangled slyly there.
I fooled myself it’s just a tiny speck
of dirt — ignored my state of disrepair.
The character of millstones is to hide
their heaviness and hindrance to your way;
so you become accustomed, petrified
(that’s turned to stone), your feet then made of clay
So, recently I ripped it from my throat
and flung it far into the stormy sea.
Thus, now it’s so much easier to float —
to be what I was always meant to be.
When purity becomes your sacred goal,
lustrating breezes filter through your soul.
© Alan Morrison, 2017