The battles you’ve won
deserve monuments
golden
sky high
monuments
not words
that die in the air
wither
and change
but stone
towering
unyielding
beaming
beaming back
the years
oceans
of tears
beaming back
all you’ve done
beaming back
every moment
spent
waiting
tediously
waiting
for your body
to assemble
its might
and fight
no more
no more needles
septic
weevils
worming
their way
into places
undone
The acrid
taste
of defeat
as cells collide
cellular homicide
defeat
defeat
Behind doors
in hospital hallways
cut
prodded
again and again
rebuilt and remade
again and again
No more
You rose
stronger than
before
you rose
Until here
here
in the realm
of moon
and stars
cathedrals
shadows taller
than mountains
You’re here
breath catching in throat
here
slowing steps
slowing time
stone upon stone
looking skywards
rising
defying
blood
sweat
tears
unified
stone upon stone
stronger than steel
this is force
this is power
combined
In midnight air
we’ll stand
shoulder to shoulder
you’re here
staring
voices low
awe-struck
staring
At the monument waving
eyes bright
at the sun
together they’ll see
You are free
you are free
About the Creator
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More stories from Claire Moran and writers in Poets and other communities.
Glimpsing freedom
On slow, cosmic days, I find my way out of that cramped, noisy, dirt-shod room filled with ghosts and echoes. Out of the deafening fog churning and churning day and night. Where clocks tick, tick, tick into tomorrow, always tomorrow, at breakneck speed. Back to the door with no lock, no chains, no captives. Back to the spiralling, humming space; where life flows, through light and air, through ever-moving waters. Back to the sweep and curve of the corridors, the stairways, the tunnels. Back to the weight, the mass, the blend, of steel, wood, brick, stone. Back to the cauldrons, the furnaces, the engines, that burn and pulse, that transfigure and transform. Down, deeper, and deeper, deeper down, through dust and dark, breathing in every corner, every crevice, every whip and sting of the place. Passing places long-forgotten, unseen, roughly hewn, old with age and neglect. At times I find my way blocked, confused; a maze of dank and damp, of sharp-edged carapaces, so that I retreat. Other times I find my way with ease, through dark and dust, till I can go no further. Till I see, till I feel, the warm, steady light of that lamp-lit place, deep inside it all. Where the air is clear and crisp, the fire always burning, the view fresh and clear. From here light and air ripple out, flinging open doors and windows, flushing out the dust, the dirt, the cobwebs; guiding the whole, whirring, working thing back together. Bringing back that slow, easy, rhythm of a machine in perfect motion, in perfect harmony. Bringing the whole house, my body, back home.
By Claire Moran4 years ago in Psyche
Center Stage with Paul Stewart
*** I'm keen to republish the interviews I did for my series with Vocal creators. It's been a few years and I thought it might be nice to revisit these wonderful conversations. I'll be releasing them one at a time for a few weeks/months.
By Heather Hubler6 days ago in Interview
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