Nineteen Years

Nineteen

and afraid

because she

finally became

nothing—ghostly,

wading past her prime,

time’s ebb and flow slowly

reminding her that life

was only temporary.

She was born

and buried

by the shore

of brevity. Nameless,

she wandered the valley

of lost beasts, hoping egress

was a real possibility

because she wasn’t

ready to let go.

The current

ebbed and flowed.

Time’s definite storm

seized her, and she implored

unspoken words to sing before

she drowned. Adorned

with impressions

of remorse,

she questioned

the instinctive need for

victory, asking forgotten faces,

unpraised, if they wished

to hear their names

lauded amidst

legends.

For nineteen

years, she stared

toward the end of the

road ahead, that dreadful glare

the only memorable

thing about her.

Unstable,

she whispered

to the good-natured

survivor living inside her,

and she wondered if black birds

knew they were ill omens—

messengers of death.

What are ends,

last breaths,

letting go

but a ripple

in the ebb and flow

of fate’s perpetual vigil?