I have found myself
hiding in the bindings of a book
or nestled in between two lines of poetry –
an image staring back,
so striking in resemblance
that the pages turn to
I compose myself,
reading on and finding chasms
where I could throw away my life.
This will be the making of me,
I think, as ink begins to find its way into my veins,
leaving thumbprint stains to mark bright passages.
Later, I will find my way back here upon the same path
changed and now, because I know the way,
can take the time to find those hidden veins of ore
that lie tucked just out of sight.
They sing to me and beg to see the light.