Sunrise

In the end, she did not make it.
How you feel when the sun rises,
casting its beams across our sheltered,
quite face - a reprieve comes rarely,
at the most inopportune moments.
Hands clasped together, she will
take steps through the desert, the
rainforest, the never-ending abyss.
At the end of the tunnel, there is
another tunnel. And then another, etc.
Trivial. Fleeting. Emotion bare to the
walls that watch her break her fists
against concrete and analytical tension. Where will
she take her rest, make an exit, glide
gracefully from the room?
Speaking of disappointment and the
solutions to our human[ness] is like
being chased down by the CIA. Let go, run off,
shot down, chewed up, taken out
back and beaten without mercy - we are
cogs, hands, labor, wisdoms, adamant
seekers of truth, acceptance;
that thing called love.
She took the stones in her hands,
skin translucent, trembling vessels;
she hurled them to the moon, without
hesitation.