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
untapped
unknown
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
reckless
tattered
raw
and pure
I wish that I was her
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