The question plagued me since we parted,
if I had lost the ability to write poetry,
if you had taken all the music from my heart,
I had to know if it was in me still,
to watch the banks of the river spill,
to tap back into that well,
and share with the world whatever it brought forth.
For too long I lay, a victim of the sullen grave,
Staring at the bleak blue sky
As day after day flew overhead
Though I felt trapped, and you were all to blame,
I knew, even in my heart of darkness,
That I had more to give,
And I could not lie forever,
Chained in shackles to which I possess a key,
With that epiphany burning in my brain
I felt the chains binding me fall asunder,
Even as I lifted bodily from the grave
Buoyed by the knowledge I have attained
The realization that you did nothing to me
I did it to myself, you had not the power and do not still,
While I am the master of this thing called fate.
The only chains that could ever hold me,
Were not wrought by hands of man,
Or wrapped around me in some ficiton of metaphor,
By a villainess in angel’s guise.
For ’tis I who forged each fearsome link
And girded them about me,
I who dug the hole that would have been my tomb.
My voice was not stolen,
I hear it still, and with breath in my lungs
I will make the world tremble at my roar.