How dare you confine
me in your insignificant box
she gazes at the
image meticulously created on the fancy hand mirror
and applies the
gloss with the determination of one who loads a gun
the piercing
stilettos hit the floor echoing on the hallways passed
insidious prolepsis
of places yet to be
She knows the fight
is vain
She knows peace in
acceptance
and still on her
veins the very essence of a warrior
drives her forward
in constant
acceleration
burning the mileages
of a limited existence
She knows
statistically it will be fate
But if...
Just if.
That lingering
little thread of hope
that Michelangelo's
David will complete the mighty touch
No comments:
Post a Comment