The Fortunate

photo by Alevtina Zibareva/Pond5

They are
Like volunteers mocked by the crowd until they hear the hypnotist’s snap.
They wake mortified to hear their own breath roaring in their own ears
In this true reality and can only beg for one more breath.

They are the fortunate.
Awake and breathing they sense absence and mourn its proximity
Just out of reach. Like the air in the soap bubble to its iridescent shell,
They are held close to contain their awe.

They are the fortunate ones.
Awed and awake they are free to choose what’s necessary
Like spindrift with no worry or care in its trajectory.
They are heirs to the land just as those drops are to the sea.

They are the fortunate ones who
So see and hunger for it to be.
They attend this true reality closely and are filled.

They are
Like bookkeepers keeping ledgers of hurts balanced by woes
Until they burn the whole book to free their debtors
And so free themselves from being owed.

They are the fortunate
Whose hearts are now windows that let light flow,
That once turned in to relive each passion. Windows 
To look out to this true reality.

They are the fortunate ones
Who see not with fear as characters in stories striking out,
But as children see, the simple things, promises broken like wings,
That they reach out to heal.

They are the fortunate ones who
So see and driven by necessity,
Live in a reunion with this true reality.

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