#200 Light the Prism Colors of My Freedom’s Dream

by Maeve Johnson

The night is angered. The cold and stormy wind howls while the thunder roars upon the hour of my discontent. I fearfully ask, “Did I upset you?” The shadows brush up against me. I shriek, unknowingly. I beg, “Please, tell me what I did?” You say nothing. I suffer madness. Silences . . . save for the wind. Stillness, except for the dancing shadows of the night, my conscience and my life’s anger. The cold sings. Your conscience is cold. The galley won’t burn much longer.

“How long will you stay? You stayed away longer this time. Where were you?” Something’s different. This time, something’s different about you. No response. My shadow bleeds. Something stirs. “What is it? Who’s there? What do you want?” The galley dies. Cold shivers run down my spine. I am quivering. I feel a hand. It’s your hand. It takes hold of me. “What have I done? I am sorry. Please forgive me?” I’m a bird trapped in asylum madness. The light fades. It’s dark now. Time has stopped; frozen. I’m dreaming wide awake with the color of my prison’s inheritance and your conscience . . . a mere shadow now.

Bright lights awaken my soul’s sojourn. Silenced for too long, I’m ready to shout, “STOP! Stop now!” A testimony to my past, I lie there motionless and free of madness . . . a witness. I take one last glance as I leave the streets of my despair with my soul ascending on angel’s wings. I am free to light the colors of my freedom’s dream.

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