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every day is a new fort

November 4, 2014

Every day I build a new fort
fresh materials clutched in my hands
some days it’s pillow soft,
a castle of comfort, I can throw
myself from turrets and land in a
moat of my own making –
dreaming on, softly, slowly going on

some days it’s brittle sticks,
the lone pioneer stockade against the wind
fire threatens you, there’s no warmth inside
there are no friends
in the woods these days-
you built this fort out of the trees,
they will not welcome you in

some days it’s stone  – cold and tall
each piece chiseled from a quarry
deep below my hidden fortress
I walk the silent halls, grateful
for the strength surrounding me,
listening to the echo of my own footsteps

some days it’s a tent – pitched
on the floor of shifting sands
I might have to uproot at any moment,
there’s no safety in this camp
but the sunset’s beautiful as I watch
from the tent entrance, curtain wisping thin around my arms

every day I build again
to keep the daylight foes at bay
every morning I start anew
every night they come down again

these are the forts I have
these are the halls of my pretend
these are the safeties I am taking
these are my walls to mend

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