Unfinished

The solace of a spirit spared

unravels the afterthought

of a journey imperiled.

With the brazen cusp

of no turns,

was she ready to

fly into the great unknown?

A premium breadth of the profane

in the course of “who wins?”

staggered from her impaled lips.

A prolonged deafness

amidst the trenches of "how?"

hazed the lift of her song.

A predictable machination

during the war of “yes” or “no”

loses its beat wth well-timed synchronicity.

Duty to this life calls

to a reparable heart

in the line of fire.

Alis Volat Propriis means "She flies with her own wings."

In the end, she speaks, she sings, she knows, she lives

even in the dangling combat of suspension.

Solemn ties around the perpetual myth

of grandiosity orchestrate the belief

that self-assurance tells a story of

what had to be overcome to get here.

“Here”

marks the stage

where the brink of havoc and chaos is measured

by the slight temperament of attention-seeking.

“Here”,

with unyielding honesty,

paves an imaginary road to unexpected redemption.

“Here”,

where the creed “I think, therefore, I am” inks itself

into the spine of before and after thoughts.

“Here”

where laughter over the incredulous

leads to perplexed thought

"Here"

where the apology river flows

into a bay of forgiveness

"Here"

is somewhere,

neither here nor there,

but only in the throes of our truth.

She tries to hold her head up

as she fans out flaming skin.

The cold breaks out in guileless form

as she learns to start again.

She's not broken inside, she's winded from the mile.

She learns the art of holding her heart

as forgiveness settles in.

She wipes the blood of self-hate

that begins to wear thin.

She's got nothing to hide,

it's the shame that grinds

Love becomes the lure

that is worth fighting for

beyond the quiet ground

of all that is safe and sound.

She turns her back on doubt

and arms through the stoic drought.

She holds to the night

without a tear in her eye.