It was futile- the one above said,
like a broken record, repeating the three words,
but I could not stop-
no- though my legs were too tired to stand upright,
no- though my hands were too weak, they swayed left-right,
It was a battle- a battle that was rooted
in the centuries old text,
and the tales grandma said.
With every beat of the red throbbing creature in me,
I ran and leapt, above fence and leaves,
leaving footprint behind.
On the rocks so hard, and worn-out trees,
on the sky above and grass so green.
Why was she so needy, so stubborn to let go,
she had hers handed right to her,
still she was greedy for what she never got.
Never did I ask for this, but never will I give up,
for it it me that wants, what she is asking for,
and me itself that despises her as a whole.
Grown and gone are shadows, wilted and dried are the flowers,
the wind- passed the east gates, rested at the west,
there is not end to the race I run,
to cross the ribbon of whispers at the end.