Soaring through that dismal abyss of life unknowingly. Making each right turn only to be tempted by the fear and realizing as the trumpet blares and the large revolving door stops short, that the left at Dover Bridge was next on her route to take.

So she suffers another one of these existences in order to cure another line. Hoping that forgiveness is in order for an inexplicable mistake made on the eve of her father’s death.

Why she happened to think of him at that moment, no one knows. Why he torments her sleep, she can only tell. But oh, does she regret letting her thoughts wonder for a fraction of a second in order to end up here.

She was not given the gift of forgetfulness, she was not granted the soul of a saint. She stands alone on the soles of her feet walking the middle of this dark stone road.

The world is asleep to her. She is caught somewhere. Biding time, in hopes that a better arrangement shall come her way on the banks of Melbourne Hill. If she had been there before, she might know – no one passes. She might see the mistakes printed on its past.

Better a fit for a meandering soul who cannot tell her way. She will wait an eternity for that victimized rage to finally unleash what has been given its great right.

And what a sight we shall see when she finally understands that it is not a flight of fancy, that no one has been promised a ride on a winter storm. That the freeing gift of love held tightly in time’s tomb, can only be held in steady hands against the warmth of a body filled with forgiveness.


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