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Mona
Color fades and the tips turn gray
Wisps and strands, the locks all blend.
Once a golden sunrise damp with the morning dew,
Now a milky gray sponge, all life anything but living.
So much for rebirth.
There aren’t enough cells to create another sunrise on that shining cliff top.
Not even Mona smiles anymore,
Her face dark and dreary, full of painful content.
Begging for a silent release
From the cancerous cage that contains her golden soul.
It is all she can do but cry for the unwatered flowers,
Her only audience.
Making their silent flight from the very spot they had been born.
She longs to water those flowers like she longs to water her soul.
Purify that which is the essence of life itself.
Her naturally xenophobic nature is abandoned,
now her long for escape more powerful than any fiber of her being.
A single frame restrains her,
Though she extends to the corners of the white marble labyrinth
That has become her home.
She, like the flowers, has a cycle.
A continuous never ending story that will stay alive for as long as men believe in dreams,
But there is a lie in belief and men are corrupt.
So she may end up like the flowers, begging for release.
Praying to everything she doesn’t believe in,
And believing in things she didn’t think she could.
And then those flowers finally go.
A tear rolls down her cheek and the paint spreads like wildfire across her flawless face
Because she knows,
All good things must come to an end.
