Had she the tools of a conductor she would have demanded an encore. Applause, applause, applause- it all felt untrue, and insincere. At some point she would have to leave the stadium, gather her things and walk into the streets. She would have to put one foot on the ground even as her hands reached futile towards the unreachable sky. Wishing, she was wishing for the gift of flight- fighting, she was fighting for every breath she took- not to take another, but to snuff them out. If he couldn’t stay, she didn’t want to stay either. All was ruin and in this ruination she was decompressing to the point of no return.
Her heart, her heart was gone. Aboard a ship to Paris. Thunder clapped and was insincere. Her concaved breath smelled shallow with indifference. Her feet repelled the earth. Fists shot up and birth was a tale best left untold.
Eternal rest is an oblivion with no return, but the other side of the coin is a preceding life. A crescendo written only in the music sheets of time- a book that can’t be read but in hindsight. And as she fell to the ground, sure-fire earth bound for as long as it was written- she felt a feeling that could only be described as LIFE- a pounding in her chest as soft as the first hues of light in the early morning sunrise. Enduring life, enduring loss, in doing, doing what she must to keep on breathing- she’d survived and garnered a tinge of strength. From where it came, she did not know, but felt it just the same.
A new heart was drumming out a beat.
She stood upon her feet.
She gathered all her things.
She hit the street, she hit the street.
Marching on,
she would not forget,
but heal, heal-
heel toe heel toe heel toe
to the finish line.
Her story was not yet
a tale to be told,
a trail gone cold.
Just a chapter bookened
to another.
On she goes.
On she goes.