Man, Becoming
(Warsaw at 55)
Before.
I lit a candle.
The flame didn’t speak.
It witnessed.
Tears came—not as weakness,
but as breath I’d held
for far too long.
A quiet celebration.
Now.
Unbuckled past.
I travel light—
gloves, pens,
a few good books,
and a hunger for change.
Not an escape.
A vow.
Next.
A city that doesn’t flinch at starting over.
No more planning,
just presence.
Box in the morning,
heavy metal in the afternoon,
writing when the ghosts grow loud—
rituals to reinvent.
Not escape.
A forge.
Steam. Paper. Ring. Platform. Forest. Cold river.
The man I was—
compressed,
defined by pressure,
a prisoner to vigilance—
will loosen his grip
and welcome mysterious wonder.