A writer without

a voice is haunted by the

words she cannot say.

I am done living

with ghosts, with words bubbling

under the surface,

unable to break

free, driving me mad with their

potential, their hope.

I will no longer

be bound by silence, by fear.

My words will be free.

© The Lightning Tower, 2020

The warmth washes over you as you enter the fern room. The humidity soothes your wind-torn face, such a stark contrast from the cold, dry air outside.

You hear the rhythmic tinkling of the waterfall, making its way down, rock from rock, to the still pond across the path.

You see such rich greenery, ferns of all shapes and sizes spiraling around you.

The air smells like damp soil, and the indefinable scent of plants. Maybe it’s the smell of life, of growth, of reaching up, up, up, towards the sun.

© The Lightning Tower, 2020