She has no other way but this
alone in her precious room
with the ticking hands of her watch
and the steady rhythm of breath.
A hell she has chosen
and willingly accepts
that threatens to burn her alive
as fists pound at the locked door
desperate to rescue that which is already lost.
A pile of ashes from which she will rise
the barefoot midwestern maiden
cradling her soul in her arms
a fragile being held together
with red thread and rusty needle.
It quietly sobs as all children do
for the arms of their creator
and the vision given
by the wind and the rain.
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