She dances in front

of the old church

a ruined steeple,

overtaken by

the creeping forest,

half drowned by the rains.

There’s an old name

and a dying wish

beating in a chamber of bone,

in a prison of flesh and sinew.

Someone spoke there,

and something listened

until it didn’t

anymore.

My hopes

are nothing but

little red words,

writhing and contorting

like serpents devouring

each other

in a frenzy

of survival and death.

I look on in horror,

but she sings

a song of comfort,

bringing peace to

a heart

soaked in exile.

'One dream,' she says

'Just one. That's all you need.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Live on and dream.

Start now.

Begin again.

And if you fail,'

she said,

'weep, but try again.'

With every ending

a new beginning.

A journey

with a thousand starts

but no end

until we admit

that we can go

no further.

Live and die

with these beginnings

these endings,

and endure

the 'almost-theres'

and the 'never-weres.'

Shatter the heart

and rebuild it

with wishes

and hopes,

a prayer for the future,

as we wander

so far from what we were

to what we're meant to be.

Together we sing

a song of exile

of bitter defeats,

of quiet determination,

to live,

to dream.

This is where we begin:

Embrace the emptiness

the silence

the blank page

the wordless song,

the muse whispering

sweet nothings

of inspiration.

She feels like a melody,

ever gentler

when I hold her.

Our music is sad,

but needed.