Hairs on her head have to be just so despite the omnipotent wind.
No hair can be out of place even as her scarf and dress are caressed by the wind.
She listens to the calm and quiet wondering what provokes her urge to achieve such perfection.
She is tired of the purity,of the reputation of infallibility.
Opening her eyes she realizes that her desire to be perfect contradicts reality.
She is forever imprisoned in her idealized world.

Perfection is her cell.

All alone she stands in a meadow of varying tulips and roses.
In actuality she is in a meadow of anguish as her everyday trauma returns.
She must be this way and not that.
The trauma of that tightly bound dress and that choking scarf.
Wind cannot even sweep her away anymore,
because she is so distracted by the bars that surround her and
gag her of human like qualities
deeming her useless against her own vice;herself.

Perfection is her cell.

Women have to be perfect ,or is it just her?
Hopefully she can escape these insecurities.
Break free from the expectations that are so high and mighty that they outweigh the wind.
Discovering who she truly is,
that’s her mission today
but first she must be unbound .

Perfection is her cell.