Thursday, March 20, 2008

Denied

After a while she got used to the
hollow feeling
below the breastbone.

After all, it’s a space seldom filled with

anything

of substance.

But
phantoms
love to dance there,
faint hopes,
iridescent
playing teasing games with
the longing that takes up residence
in such places.

Whenever she got
a taste,
a hope,
it always came with growing certainty
that it would all amount to
nothing.

Then she would run,
hard,
up hills,
stairs,
through bushes-
anywhere brutal enough to shake off,
brush off her demons.

She always fell, winded, troubles intact.

Unworthiness
outlasts even the most fit
and how can you run away from yourself,
anyway?

Just this once, she hopes, there will be
something
in the end,

something beautiful
something magnificent
to take roost in that empty place,
a phoenix
maybe, sparkling and gloriously flame-red,
or even a peacock,
self-proud,
strutting cosmic blues and greens-

but she doesn’t believe it.

Rachel Westfall
March 20, 2008

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