The other side of that was in the ranks for demolition by the first half of this.
Shackles and chains embraced my wrists but tied to nothing. In a blessed fortnight on an angry sea a lighthouse shone, a foghorn sounded. (Laredo! it sang) The other side was illuminated and proven desolate. So upon abandonment and silent escape the bondage was left behind because it was expensive and not likely to be afforded by someone who decided hey, I'm going to budget myself. That's smart and wise. Mid flight some little arrow got shot into me. Sneaky. And quicker than I or anyone else knows I did fall right to the ground. I actually landed but soon after melted to a puddle. It was shocking and warming and quite vulnerable. I pretended to still be a solid mass but I couldn't fool myself for long as I began to trickle on down the forever. A diverse array of colors really I became. And I drip into a bucket of white paint. Potentially lifted, taken to the store, mixed. Producing quite a lovely color, one warm and sound enough to paint the walls of a house and make it a home. A new place for me so that I never have to know the other side again. Stormy seas and threatening prisons would waste themselves threatening my watchman, my anchor, my teacher. The first half of this. The hand that touched me and melted me to the ground. The hand clever enough to install a permanent spring in my step. The hand I want to hold and never try to fly away again.