She kneeled on the edge of everything.
Looking at her hands,
In dispossession of erasure.
She thought about him, about them all,
That they were leading lives
She didn’t want to imagine.
As she looked ahead of her,
There was no ground,
Was she meant to fly onwards?
Was she made to jump and survive, laugh it all away?
Why did they always come back to haunt her?
From their lives, their routines, their money flow.
She must be free, she thought.
They’re after me, or was she paranoid?
Did her wounds make her distort the current state of things?
Was she so afraid to look ahead that she turned her gaze backwards?
To the ill-intended, the stigmatising ones, the shallow hungry creatures.
What did they have to offer but bones and spillages?
You can’t call it “running away”, she went through it all,
There is no need for revisitation, she can’t find herself in their deserts.
She is meant to take the risks, cut the insane cords and re-establish herself continuously.
“Memories” by Frederic Leighton, 1st Baron Leighton (1830-1896)
Croque-Melpomene 