Wither

Decide for yourself.

Somedays,
when the storm claims dawn,
when shadows settle to stay,
she sits in grass,
beneath darkening night,
and is one with the waves and the wind.
Somedays,
when wings squander light,
and streak skyward
to obscure view and muddle senses,
she lies in the forest,
between shafts of shining
and waits for the world
to swallow her fate.
It is future she lives for,
the divine through the mirror,
the morning she wakes
to find each pot on its shelf,
each book in its place
with no trace of dust or dirt,
to smudge the pages of her work.
It seems a dream,
a fantasy that echoes through the halls,
it treads a faint, forgotten path
that many never call.
But is perfection just obsession
a bias one chooses without any reflection?
What is pure?
What is mighty,
Great folly of the holy?
And does perfection
mean incisions
cut deeper than visions?
Or is it simply
a revision
to fix the things
she’s long kept hidden?