Down south the leaves are falling;
dangerous choices made.
A life not of what most are searching
can therefore not persuade.

And yet, she can see from where she stands…
the clouds have held out their hands;
because it is bright, and it is quiet,
space to soar and think allows
for her to find the answer –
they are too busy on themselves.

The flowers on the postage stamp,
on the letter she wanted to send –
she knows her worth, her potential, her limits;
and receive it, they wouldn’t comprehend.

Flickering lights from broken glass;
wasted numbness.
With shaking hands, she cannot grasp.

Rolling hills under her eyes;
sleepless nights and jilted dreams.
The entrance to her endings…
she wants to soar, but dragged down from the sky, she seems.

Her wings are broken;
mend them – yes, she will!
For lost hopes and unanswered questions,
she ignores it all with tenderness still.

The sun peeking through the frosty window,
the new day gifts warm apprehension.
Her favourite scarf hanging on the cupboard door
is the last thing she packs, with no intervention.

Goodbyes, said none;
a ghost of the depths, she fled.
Up high, you can no longer see her –
for she is what your own dreams have said.
“Your dreams are within reach!” she cries.
“Take life’s losses and meet me in golden skies.”
She looks at me with familiar eyes;
I now can see that they were always mine.

A mirror and not a window –
I was looking through.
And I know now what I must do.
Follow me here, and you will see:
contemporary ideals will not set you free.
The colour of your future
is for you to decide.

For me? It is all: yellow.