She no longer knows ache, or pain, or true fear,
For where there was once only a slightly battered something,
Sits a grey stone.
It is worn, and cracked, an anamorphic structure lost between red, and white,
Cushioned in a cavity that is now truly unshakeable–
A gift to formerly good things that were rooted there.
She is not quite so pleased by the disfigured greyness–although she never takes her fingers from its fissures–
And between its crumbling, microscopic grains of destruction,
She finds glimpses of a rusty red that sometimes morphs
To a glowing, pleasing crimson, swirling in a comforting jelly sac.
It is there, with her watching the ghost of the stone,
That the visions grip her:
A girl who walks with her shoulders back,
Laughter in her eyes, and a steady step on the quivering ground;
Her words are warm, as she moves with calm to the pounding rhythm of her effusive heart–
She trembles, vision clearing, and massages the stone with a disappointed frown.
She always wonders, once the sights are gone, and only grey remains,
How close she can come to being her again;
Would it help at all,
If she held the greyness
True, and proper,
And searched until,
She found the right kind of fall?
It is there new vision finds her,
Of a girl on an edge, keenly, curiously, looking down.
The water rumbles, as it roars all around her,
And the tender sound of its joyous roar,
Makes the cavity shake, ‘though she fails to feel it.
When she finally steps off,
All she can hear,
Is the whistle of the wind, and the shout of the skies;
Then the breaking begins, and while there is snapping,
What she really hears, is the gentle crumbling of the cold, grey stone;
There is water in her lungs, and an ache to her bones,
But she sees the girl with the laughter in her eyes, and the steady, rhythmic step;
Then she’s her again, and her heart is warm, her soul is kind,
And her grin is magnetic;
Her words are fire, while within her glows,
A soft, squishy thing, pounding red beneath her open hand.
Sabbath, Friday, February 12, 2016. 22:43 hrs.