She sits.
She breathes.
She stares.

Incessant Rain
Soft Greys

Cloud-full skies
Withering Trees


The melancholy skies
Mock her lack of Purpose
With their Lightning eyes of Judgment
And Thundering bellows of False Praise.

Dead trees point their
Elongated, black fingers
At her in malice
For her inability to be and do.

And Longing
Fall down her cheeks from
Hurt-filled eyes…

But she smiles.

A little at first,
Then wider.

Joyful breaths,
Near chuckles
Escape her lungs.

She feels.
Be it pain or despair
She feels…

She feels!

And if she feels,
She therefore must be.

These dark figures
Outside her window
Are but a taste of life,
Teasing her to bite deeper
Into that bright red apple.

She pulls back that red skin,
Those haunting skies and horrid trees,
And finds a most abundant
Collection of the complexities of living.

She finds that there are other things
Than just darkness:

She no longer wants to not matter,
To remain in stillness.

She finds she already exists
Just as those trees,
Those clouds,
Those raindrops do.

Here is the apple,
And in existence,
She has found purpose.

By feeling,
She is doing.
By doing,
She is living.

No one wants to die,
To remain but not feel.
And so she strives
To be great within herself.

I strive to be great within myself!


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