Born that pavement might move beneath my feet;
I recreate to follow destiny.
I - the eagle, the dove, the raven dies
straight for the setting sun the phoenix flies.
Would that I could be how you might love me;
how - I might, find buried depth beneath scars,
graceful string-strung-whispers of lonely call;
dark, stark echoes where tears and answers fall.
Down my spine, less youth's determination
for dead-end highways in gutters I’ve crawled:
risen only to regained fortitude,
trudging destiny to find latitude.
The multitudes forgot to understand,
the champion that begs to hold your hand.
Silver trophy winner
Adding your comment:
Joyce 
~Pamela
Beautiful 
