Progress is not an linear line
Sloping upwards, past the clouds
Hurtling into the warmth of the sun.
It is not a predictable chain of events, playing by the rule book.
At times the prospect of results may seem bleak
But when given just a bit more time
Time to falter
Time to rest in stoic solitude,
Is just when I begin to recognize the minuscule changes in the atmosphere
Of healing and recovery
At first, as fathomless as a single molecule in a pool of water
Until I notice how quietly the fiery wounds of the past were stitched by the threads of time.
Looking back, the needle still in hand
The final knot is tied.
All of the cinders fall away like wisps against the cool wind.
The scar which is permanently etched
Never quite looks like a straight line.
Left behind are the jagged edges
And the remnants of what used to be.
The raw, savage fear
That once claimed me for its own
Is a reminder of all that was fought
And everything which was won.