she became a colloid of fret and guts together,
living a life thrice lost and twice regained.
turned in by ravenous waves of all aches imaginable,
battered by endless nights of rain on the seas of her tears.
the deafening silence of her heart,
the echoes of a quietened plea to live.
Saints pledged to and did come,
but Saints grew weary of the length of her roads.
Saints left - one by the other.
on the morning's shore, the boats of the lifeless tendered to and fro.
"all aboard!", the gentle Captain cried.
she could flee along with the freedom of a Bird;
she could trade her life for a reason to have it.
on what was the seeming collapse of an empire, her towers thrust from beneath.
but enough they weren't, to hold the pieces of ash and clay she'd become.
and so, on a morning not foreseen,
her Soul would fly with the wind,
gliding to the airs where save the Angels kept.
may it have been at the Captain's behest,
may it have been the end of a pursuit of tranquil and rest.
on account of her being not far from perfect,
it ended for her perfectly, on a snowy January morning -
as a Stowaway to Heaven
"on that morning, when the storm is over, I know I will see your face"
~Chibele 💔
for the millions with a loss irreplaceable,
the Sun will shine again.
Comments
Post a Comment