She sings to caged bones, lost within the mist of belonging.
She dances bare foot upon moistened earth, praying for understanding.
It never comes.
She bows to tradition, seeking ritual to carve truths. Surface wounds bleed, iron seeping into her receptive soul.
With open arms she calls for the owl at midnight hours.
Yet hours mock, the clock is no friend. Ideals from childhood still haunting present fascinations.
No owl spied. Only paper reflections are points of reference for her, landscape fantasies gracing daydreams.
Mechanic limbs constricting her breath. Machine realities play vividly during meditations. Her world is one of construction, built by green-fingered desires.
Stung by tastes of metal and chemical pastes, smeared across her pastel complexion.
Her skin is worn from tired work. Decades never to resurrect.
Her hair knotted.
Her vision hovers below sun kissed horizons, counting steps to avoid straight lines in pavements.
Her nights are late. Conversations with electric devices partner imaginings of community. Muttering of others existence to be one full of wrongs.
Her life is lost.
Mystery cradles tearful days. The moon ignites primal blueprints and wants of change that never come about. She sits, palms connect to ancient chants, wrenching her from modern chains. Fearless commitment is more than she can fathom.
Yet commit she must, to save a soul not yet broken.