Chloe Foster

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The Wind On The Ledge

The wind scatters her hair,
The fragile fabric of her shirt clings to her back.
The wind attempts to push her forward,
As her crowded and crammed mind begins to retract.

Trapped in a memory,
Existing in the exhausting grasp of the past,
Her world; wrapped up in a few moments,
A box of trauma and pain that has yet to pass.

Her bare feet touch the ledge,
The air around her is stifling and downcast,
Her mind is chalked full of apathy,
She is bent on her coming breath being her last.

She looks around her world,
Secretly hoping to find something to save her,
She spots a boy tiptoeing the ledge,
The character cast on his face starts to waver.

His mask begins to break,
The facade that he puts up begins to come down,
His sorrow and shame start seeping through,
His superficial smile turns into a frown.

He looks around in strife.
She wonders about how varied his viewpoint is,
How he perceives the flowing river,
How her eyes may play a different movie than his.

She looks upon a rose,
An oblivious rose being moved by the wind,
Flickering back and forth as a flame,
Mechanical movements that seemingly don’t end.

What’s the rose’s purpose?
Does it know it’s only actions are from the wind?
Is the wind aware of its power?
Is it a cycle of helplessness without end?



What is her real purpose?
Are her movements stiff and forced like those of the rose?
Is she pushed and pulled but still rooted?
Is she stuck in a hopeless and unaware pose?

The wind keeps picking up,
The river is as teal ribbons harshly flying,
The girls tries to picture calm water,
She watches as the boy appears to start smiling.

He steps down from the ledge,
She wonders what he comprehends that she cannot,
What he knows to make life livable,
Longing the experience of this train of thought.

The wind pushes fiercely,
As her thoughts pull back leaving her painfully numb.
While nature pushes upwardly,
Her dissociating eyes look down in glum.

The wind starts to die down,
The river returns to its past serenity,
The girl’s starts to think of the ocean,
How the wave on its own holds no identity.

Her mind starts to pick up,
It can’t help but be curious on what she lacks,
These questions now an itching in her bones,
The hope to understanding them is her line back.
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