to her life of lines and shadows,
freedom would be a sunburst,
a snowstorm across her funeral black.

to her empty angel choirs,
freedom would be cacophony,
singsongically weaving its intoxicating words.

to her bland and tasteless existence,
freedom would be ambrosia,
searing and sugaring and spicing her world.

to her endless search for something,
freedom would be forgiveness,
hugging her tight and then letting her go.

to her tears that fall in silence,
freedom would be oblivion,
blanketing and numbing the ever-present pain.

to her sleepless nights of anxiety,
freedom would be permission,
permission to abandon fear and sink away.

to her life of lines and shadows,
to her empty angel choirs,
to her bland and tasteless existence,
to her endless search for something,
to her tears that fall in silence,
to her sleepless nights of anxiety,
freedom would be assurance.
freedom would be safety.
freedom would be feeling that finally,
finally,
she is more than,
Enough.