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Chicago marked
a low point
In my
roller-coaster life,
So low I
could not recognize
Who I had
come to be.
We lived in
a husk of house,
Back of a
used-car lot.
The one
saving grace of that house
Was a
glassed-in second-story porch.
A place to
escape, to write bad
Poetry. My
lament; I missed
My
mountains. From a deep place
That still
held a breath of fire, I heard
A voice;
make your own mountains.
It took me
months before I learned
To climb
into my mountains for rest.
From those
mountains in Chicago
I learned
beauty and courage.
From Chicago
I returned to myself.
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