Point of views from the corner,
She sits in shadow, the only daughter.
A welcome haze from the amber,
Never one to meander.
She dwells on months and days gone by,
Lifespan shorter than his mayfly.
A subtle sip the gap is breached,
She tumbles forward out of reach.
“Why’s your hair not soft and smooth?”
Because she’s not a Disney cartoon.
So she dances under halogen lights,
Because the sun is never up most nights.
Twirling and free falling it’s all the same,
With only her and herself to blame.
And singing out loud was her form of play,
Succumbing to her inevitable tribal DNA.
Refusing to ever ask God for a favour,
She fell her way through the Dignity of Labour.
Crashing and careening to his final “no.”
She halted and frowned, the ebb and flow.
Because explanations always kill the romance,
Like tripping over mid slow dance.
Or trying to decipher the way seasons sound,
Like Autumn in a bass clef, deep and profound.
And rhythms should never need explanation,
They should lilt in the air in time with palpitation.
So when her haze cleared and she had stopped falling,
It’s the landing that hurts, not the act of free falling.
She stared out the window to the ever-changing sky,
Reminded of his lifespan like the mayfly.
But the night slowly changed from black, to charcoal,
So she brought back to life her heart, her mind, her double helix soul.