The past was rife with shadows, ghosts waiting to claim her soul, baying wolves, their howls chasing her future, anticipating the kill. She ran through the forest, less fleeing from, more seeking the self beckoning, the self she ought to be in a place of her choosing. Atop a windswept crag, the gale lifted her heavy heart, drove her to her knees. Her true self was calling her name from inside. ©April 2015, May 2022 Christina Anne Hawthorne
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