ETCHED AS IF BY A SHARPENED KNIFE;
ALIVE, THIS SCRIMSHAW SCENE SCREAMED
OF PERMANENT BEAUTY AND FLEETING PAIN;
DAYS SPENT IN SORROWFUL SLUMBER EACH
MORE DILUTED THAN THE ONE BEFORE, SHE
REACHED A SPOT BESIDE THE OCEAN, PERCHED
UPON THE SHORES OF THIS LIFE, A PEN IN ONE
HAND, NOTEBOOK SET UPON HER LAP, AND THE
SOUND OF WAVES CLAPPING UPON THE ROCKS;
THAT JAGGED CLIFF IN THE DISTANCE, THE DANGER
OF THE CLIMB, UPON THE HILL SAT A LIGHTHOUSE,
STRONG AND PATIENT.
HER EYES WERE DRAWN TO THE SKIES, AS SUNSET
BEGAN STREAKING COLOURFUL PATTERNS UPON
THE PALE BLUES AND SOFT WHITES - HERE SHE SEEKS
PEACE.. HER BONES NO LONGER SEEM TO RATTLE AND
MOAN FROM WITHIN, "I AM STILL A YOUNG WOMAN
WHY ARE WE TORTURED SO?"
