The Cloak

On the outcropping of dark rock I wonder—is this sea, sky or starry heavens? It appears as one magnificent space of endless potential.

The cloak I wear grows heavy. I know advantages of hiding and know the prison invisibility can become. Too much of a good thing.

Was it fear of trying or weariness from trying so many times that made this vestment so inviting, so safe.

It’s not that I’ve been idle during my exile. Many wondrous creations came from these depths. But the cloak is so heavy, so confining, so concealing….and suffocating.

So I stand at the end of what I have known–unwilling to go back, unwilling to stay in this realm of ghosts.

My hands rip the shroud. I glance down. Starlight peeks from its folds. Sweet water sings over pebbles and shells.

In stillness I stand as the weight begins to ease. My arms lift in joy. I step forward into the Abyss. Up and up I rise on wings of light, each feather created by a piece of tattered cloak.