She Is Not MeSitting before bitter glass,Chin down, curls drooped,Numb but to the cries of void.I sense someone,But she is not me.I have long gone.Voices call—Compelling, strong.I put them off:Stop this nonsense.She is not me,How can she be?Fine, they say:Have it your way.The betraying urge to peekHowever,Suddenly came.I stare, finally, into the mirror.The lush, coiffed hair.Glowing cheeks salmon brushed,Lips a painted cast.She is not me.She is not.My tea eyes breathed lifeI knew, as I gazed,Refuting the listless orbs.This hollow doll?No! Not me.Certainly cannot be.
SoledadThe moor was lined with thin, shallow rows of neatly cut pasture. The grass was short and demure, like texture on canvas, almost as if it were deliberately etched into the rolling expense of meadow. Bright, pale light filtered through from the tops of mile-high trees, illuminating splotches of land while leaving others cast in shadow. High up above, a light mist spread conformably over the vast fields, trickling into the forest behind and giving a dusty edge to the sunlight that spilled over acres of great moorland.The tree would have been like any other, if it had not been standing solely in the middle of the moor. It was not a particularly tall tree, nor an exceptionally large one. In fact, it was utterly dwarfed by the looming forest that towered at the rear. But it stood, curiously, alone. Its branches reached upward, lacing and entangling one another in interlocking webs of timber. The ones at the bottom drooped with the weight of thousands of tiny leaves.A dry, harsh wind swept
Through LifeI teeteron the edge of decisions,flit through the jaws of Fate.Delirious with thrill,trigger-happy.Giddy on choices I make.Life—I feel,turns out like a game.Inconsistent, yetpredictable,though somewhat the same.Push your luck,sometimes,with the lightest touch.But never,if you dare,ask for too much.