Lead boots stomp,  

Dust landing on nothing, 

And everything all at once,

Intertwined pieces of self, 

No longer connected at the seams, 

Unravelling persona, 

Cracking through shaky wooden beams, 

Her sense of self  is lost in the beat, 

Of crashing, thumping, drummers, 

Drowned out, quietening and weak,

Words falling unheard, 

Her soul trampeled as they stride, 

Saying goodbye to herself, 

A part of her has died,  

Blurred yet watched with such clarity 

She cannot attend,  

The funeral of her own sanity, 

But,  I can be present, 

and live in my own second chance,

Because unlike Dickenson, 

I will not leave in the middle of a dance.