Race and Rest

By Arlene James

She held the world in her eyes;
The alien city lights and jet-black streets
Were like tinted fleurs to a butterfly,
Gently resting to be travelled upon by the damsel at sunrise.

The concrete jungle towered upon her,
Her spirit unwavered,
She flew across the city in a blur,
Not a minute
Nor a fourth of a second was spared.

Day after day,
She paced through the granite roads,
Racing the sun to its end,
Failing to realise that her spirit had begun to bend.

Not a corner was left to be trampled,
Yet none were savoured,
For the thought that her petite feet wouldn't land upon every sight,
Had started to consume her in fright.

Grey, ominous clouds replaced the bright star,
Setting in storms that could tear any behemoth apart,
The once offbeat and vibrant routes,
Had, now, become a lifeless swamp.

Brawny winds brought the damsel down on her knees,
Her wings were ripped,
The gust of energy had slipped,
Skipping through the jungle was no more a breeze.

Rain poured down on her soft tresses,
Concealing tears that glided from the corner of her lowered eyes,
Pale lips turned down like the crescent,
The yearning to do and to be
Nearly left her sight.

For one last time,
She lifted her pearly black beads,
And a gleam of light met her eye,
A little ray in the midst of an inky sky.

"Perhaps everything that moves has to come to a still,
For every flower that has blossomed from a seed,
Without latency, in the pit,
It would bleed."
...she whispered with a hopeful sigh,
As she pauses for a heavenly while...