Thursday, 3 March 2016
She stood, beholding the horizon beyond the battlement,
her arms cradling the spear - the spear that guarded her empire;
the sentry to her heart and its secrets.
Useless was the spear, though little did she know of this:
Her heart, a shield of its own, would not be moved and needed no defence; the scars of yesteryear a chainlink dress that no force could lift.
The wind picked at her hair: a playful tug,
a fibrous trail begging to fly - to fly where only dreams could take her.
They surge down these wisps, escaping to the world outside.
Now a current riding the wind, only to to return a circuit later,
return upon a wind lament - a taunt upon the breeze,
a promising scent of hope - that which could be, yet frozen upon the steel.
The spear's tip offers no comfort, only a cold, hard resolve, a poison to her soft, warm cheek-
banishing the pink soul beneath,
vanquishing the blood and its soft cargo of warmth... A cold spear, a cold cheek, a cold belief.
She squints her eyes, the wind drawing a tear of taunt. The taunt now solid - an icicle.
The breeze once warm, the taunt once a hope - a dream - now frozen.
The sentry once alive, her hopes once a spring bloom - a rose - now buried by winter.
The sun begins to rise, beholding the sentry upon the tower,
his rays igniting a fiery glint upon her spear - the spear guarding her empire, her heart, her secrets.
The taunt melts; once more a tear, it slides across the window of her soul:
"Relinquish your empire, oh sentry, it is no empire at all!
You guard only yourself against the world - yourself against your very soul.
Stand down, dear sentry. Melt back down to your pink soul and connect with me.
Shed your dress, oh heart with hope. Unbind your scars and join with me:
a liquid of hope and hurt we shall form...
Set us free and the real sentry we shall be - the sentry against the ego of me, me, me; the liquid of hope and hurt,
The liquid of life.”