Free me from the illusion
that I am only this name,
this face reflected in passing glass,
this story repeated so often
it hardened into a cage.
Free me from the illusion
that every fear is prophecy,
that every shadow carries truth,
that the walls of my mind
are the edges of the world.
I have mistaken echoes for voices,
mirages for destinations,
and worn borrowed beliefs
like garments stitched to my skin.
Yet beneath the noise,
beneath the wanting and becoming,
something waits—
silent as the sky
before the first bird breaks the morning.
It asks for nothing.
It proves nothing.
It simply is.
Free me from the illusion
that I am separate from the river,
separate from the stars,
separate from the breath
that moves through every living thing.
Let the masks fall
without regret.
Let certainty dissolve
like mist before sunlight.
What remains
does not need defending.
What remains
cannot be lost.
And when the last illusion fades,
may I stand unburdened,
not as someone transformed,
but as what I have always been—
open,
awake,
and free.
Thank-you for reading.
Brenda Marie
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