Casting Off the Cords

Chains and threads,

wrapped and stretched and stitched throughout,

a patchwork of cords constraining all I am meant to be,

weaving through my skin,

muscles, arms,

more than clothes,

less than a snare,

tripping, tangling,

catching in each breath,

slowing countless beautiful steps I have yet to take,

preventing countless blessings I should have left in my wake.

How to run with such a weight upon my skin?

How to cast it off when the hooks and chains go deeper within?

At times I don’t even know where the tangles end

and I begin,

and it seems I could sooner throw off me from myself,

even if,

as I know,

this is no longer who I am.

What, then, is to be done,

if this runner is to run?

How shall he break,

and step out,

of what is already so long gone?

Even here must I be served,

and beg,

and wait,

and receive,

my aching, interpenetrated limbs to be salved

with consuming flame,

until the cords and cloths of once-was

crisp

blow away,

and I am unclothed,

and reclothed,

in glory.

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