Deaf to the clamor of thunder,
which rips the darkened heavens in its fury,
she sits beneath the weeping willow.

Casting green tears in a perpetual cascade,
her aegis forms an emerald bulwark
against the behemoth of reality,
protecting her from those who seek
to extinguish hope’s effulgent embers,
and concealing her from that which seeks
to put out inspiration’s flame,
ever flickering in refulgence.
To the trunk she clings,
leaning on the portcullis of phantasmagoria,
but also clutching to the shackles
that bind her to the corporal world.

Struggling to hold on,
she watches as the skeins of her sanity unravel,
as she sits in forlorn solitude.

Enveloped in verdurous immurement,
carefully hidden within her sanctum,
she mutely muses
as her reveries grant her ephemeral impunity
from reality’s grasp.
It is here she dreams of home,
sifting through the sand
and lifting her gaze to the stars
of the Mojave.