A waterfall of hair flows down her body
Which will erratically heave and rise.
A modest shroud of sorrow,
Her hair is a velvet curtain, a guise.
Wet are the hidden cheeks,
Protective is her dark drape.
Tender is her aching heart,
Courage is her tattered cape.
She licks her lips as the sobs subside
And her shaky hands calm.
Her fingers press against her hairline
And her damp eyes against her palms.
The floor is a puddle of salt,
Her regret a suffocating tomb.
Vacant and abyssal are the walls,
Heavy and sad is the room.
Her eyes then open;
They feel the cool breeze.
She takes a deep breath
And wipes at her moist cheeks.
She knows that her feet
Are not steady enough to stand.
So she reaches out her arm.
And accepts God’s helping hand.
Her eyes are filled once again with light,
And her velvet blanket is swept back.
She looks to the door with a face now bright,
Quickly healing are her cracks.
Heartbreak still whispers to her,
But she leaves it behind in that room.
Walking away with her Saviour,
She finally leaves her tomb.
Grace is all that she now knows,
Purity is her sword.
A joy that cannot come from that world,
Is found in her good Lord.
Celeste Wilner – Year 11
