A poem about death, loss, love and eternal freedom.
She is at peace. Resting with her head bent in a dreamless prayer. The Swam, moves around her and all about her, gentle spoken words and shadow glazed eyes; haunted and detached. Each visit make the air fuller, thicker and harder to breathe, as the silent spectators glace skywards for an answer to a question they dare not ask. And there she lays at peace. Resting in a place neither here nor there, where mortal fingers are hesitant to touch or grasp the in between. She raises and falls, floating in the golden sands of a heart shaped glass that seeps and bleeds nothing. The hum of power spins a web around her, as twisted vines elope in a marriage doomed for divorce. And white wash walls, like an unclaimed canvas, paint a landscape in which she does not exist. But she is at peace. Resting, eyes closed and covered with blankets of love and devotion. Emotion, raw and unafraid roaring through the moment when her peace becomes eternal and the silence does descend. Along with the Swam as they cut away the prickly bonds and listen ears cast, straining for some recognition, but find only space. A space that can never be filled, replaced or erased. Neither spectator nor other dare whisper an utterance of sound in fear it may wake her. For she is at peace. With her head bent and her eyes closed, dreaming. For she is at peace.