Passage by Michael Bloom Ford

Standing still in the archway between
the yellow room and
the gray room:

The pasts hits me
from behind like
malicious gusts of wind from the ocean

They’re dead.
I realize

Breaking free from that briny wind is painful
it finds its way into scars and wounds
but I stand firm

The dead can stay where they are.
The living
are full of blissful tears
walking unfettered toward futures

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