Seven Years (We are Children of Magnificent Atrocities)
They say that with these seven years my body is mine again. That I’ve trekked seven times around the sun to be brand new. That old wounds won’t touch me. That though my brain committed chaos to distant memory, my body will not recall. They say I’ve conquered it all. That I am victor over victim, warrior beyond weak. That I am stronger than sticks and stones could ever speak. They say that nothing overpowers me.
They tell me I am growing up from the ground. Becoming towering trees, a whistling wind of strengthened sound. They say that I am void of all calamity, that in these sacred seven years, I have been made complete. They remind me that I am hurricane. Storm of wondrous storm, beginning and thunderous end of all things born. They tell me that I am not made of the things I once feared. That I am new-found glory after these solemn seven years.
What holy celebration we find, where our scars are no longer things we wish to hide. We’ve won this fight. Master of each dwindling war. They say our past won’t dare come near, this raw and rising skin we’ve built in these sovereign seven years.
Wade in the deep with me, dip just beneath the surface where I can see. Horizons fashioned just for us. Summer breeze and sky constructed in a simple act of love. Whatevers fated, reaching far into the stars. Healing us right where we are.
The tempest playing her siren’s sonnet to a bewitched infinity. Our future seeking its peace in this serenity.
True aura we are finding here. Our souls kin to this havened place within these savory seven years.
How glorious, quite beautiful and harmonious. What marvelous bliss we’ve achieved. Even in the instance when it was challenging to believe.
We are Children of Magnificent Atrocities, prey to our ever-changing curiosity. Whatever we needed to know, now we do. This is the “after” of all we’ve been through.
We’ve shed each dripping inch of every painful tear. Wiped clean in pursuit of every dream in these stunning seven years.
