She who writes. She who embeds tear and dew into the tapestry of life written in instalments - life hand made, ready typed. She whose cadence is minutes into keystrokes, the gazing at time falling like starched Autumn leaves.
She stopping by at this page on the beat, articulating speed rhymes, launching from heart stops, rekindling each thought as sound, each sound as a portion of time relived.
She and her stance forever at the beginning, the very beginning of everything that happens, that has to happen, that reiterates its occurrence.
She reinventing from self, replacing the story with another one, blooming afresh at the very thought of belonging now to her life, to a life narrated, to a new life on a fresh page, a new day on a familiar thread of her own destiny.
She who wanted to be herself and must now be everybody else that loved her and couldn't make it.
She stopping by at this page on the beat, articulating speed rhymes, launching from heart stops, rekindling each thought as sound, each sound as a portion of time relived.
She and her stance forever at the beginning, the very beginning of everything that happens, that has to happen, that reiterates its occurrence.
She reinventing from self, replacing the story with another one, blooming afresh at the very thought of belonging now to her life, to a life narrated, to a new life on a fresh page, a new day on a familiar thread of her own destiny.
She who wanted to be herself and must now be everybody else that loved her and couldn't make it.
