Seven and Twelve.
Cycles born of the Spirit, lay down to rest.

Forty-eight.
Relinquishing the fears of others,
they crush my small frame for years.
Oozing filth, maggot-ridden skeletons
Exposed, now fade away.

Two-thousand and twelve.
The gloves are thrown off,
I shed my skin.
Exaltation beckons,
just beyond the blue door of my dreams.

Eight.
I am free.
It is time to be me.

See the fiber collage that inspired this poem!