This woman is not a woman.
she is a sort of bendable agony,
a maleable victim of the words.
she smiles more than she can bear
and pleases the walking clouds.
she is gentle with the rattle snakes
no matter how close they are.
she believes invisibility and camouflage
she hasn't changed much
since she became a symptom.
ubiquity is her strength.
she is where silence is law.
it's a pity you can't hear
her heart beating beneath her ragged dreams.
i bet you thought she was dead.
she isn't yet.
i was told you misconfused her
for a piece of furniture.
it is not your fault though.
you can blame those who came
before her if you feel more comfortable.
she may survive eternity
because she has endured the burden
of being a whisper,
a distant wound.
as she marches against everything,
i wonder who can empower her.,
who can understand when
she says she wants to be free,