In the dying fall of the darkness, when the world is still,
There is nowhere for a troubled heart to hide,
And no way to avoid the presence of your real self.
This is not the self that you show to others,
Not the self that you try to be,
Nor the self that hides behind flattery and attention
And the sweet distractions of everyday life,
A self ground down by the hard work of living,
But your real self that suddenly finds room to breathe-
The child that you once were,
Seasoned by all that has happened since.
It is the constant beating core of your soul.
Slip outside your head and hold yourself close.
Settle amongst a copse of winter trees
Which are backlit by a full moon
And sheltered by the pale ghosts of clouds,
And allow yourself to hear the truth.
Truth told to you by the only person who really knows.
Set down your worries, listen to yourself
And allow your dreams to fly free.
Judge yourself, forgive yourself, and take comfort.
You have nowhere to run,
No need to hide, and nothing to prove.
There is a kind of peace in that.