a rush, no

a rush, no
a resurgence
of a part of me buried
years ago
in a shallow grave
screaming (at first) to be free
but stifled
and ignored
and censored
as i went forward
with a hand to hold.

fast foward
opinionated youn lady, but still
voice less
silent to that forgotten passion
now found, no rekindled
by a stroke of chance (luck? fate?)
burning as intense as it once did
sharing, screaming, whispering
and FEELING
in a way that can only be done
in a poem.