In poetry lies introspection.
And as she walks past them, they close their eyes.
They antagonise her as she has nothing to hide.
They speak of togetherness but refuse to take her hand.
She once stood in a forest alone.
Beneath snow-covered nude trees.
Amongst the abundant skeleton of nature.
And she realised that she is a part of something greater.
The stage needed her contribution, she must not throw herself away.
She entered the woods with hopelessness and agony in her soul.
And as her body moved through the silence of winter-woods,
She listened to a young voice that she had suppressed to adjust.
It had been her own, and she cried, there it was, never left, her.
She was afraid of judgement from within, again.
But the voice held her tightly, warming her organs, chasing fears away.
It exclaimed that united they had always been and always shall be.
She reminded her of the life she held within herself.
The togetherness and growth of all her selves.
Everything she needed on cold days like this was her own spirit and body.
And trust her identity and the grand whole when she stands alone.
“Francesca and Her Lute” by Charles Edward Hallé (1846-1914)
Croque-Melpomene 