She runs through fields, across train tracks.
In an off-white dress taking to the air, just as she yearns to do,
she breaks through thickets of poison and useless words,
around bends that shouldn't be there and up over hills.
She stops.
In a field of wild flowers she is a chameleon.
In this field she sees the woods, but branches stretch not so far.
She hears them reaching, reaching, straining,
snapping like teeth. But they're too isolated as she is.
A collapse to the ground, she is done.
She lifts her arms and a breeze passes.
Done, done, finished. Her choice is all she has.
This is her only choice, the one facet of her life
that she has control over.
She picks herself back up. Calmly, almost casually,
she drifts to the edge of lies and hope,
of faith, trust, betrayal, deceit,
to rivers of pain and loss, blood and disparity.
Just one step. Just one step.
She turns back. Backs away.
Then
runs
propels off
and finally
she flies
as she once
dreamed.