Thursday, March 21, 2013

hope, a prism

she holds hope like a prism in her hand

she points it at the sun

and stares directly in

seeing the line it follows

and makes that line her path

she moves with the air of something primal

raw and untouched



she is fire in the face

of anything that holds

her down

 or back

 or away from

moving ever along

dancing with a catlike movement

singing in a mournful wail

touching the deepest parts

of whoever crosses her path

nothing tethers

 nothing holds

she is the scent upon the breeze




and pure

I wish that I was her

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