She.

She believed she could, then she paused.

Something about the slowing pace caught her.

That wild wind dying behind pure white sails.

A wild thing snared, clawing fruitlessly for freedom.

-

The weight of doubt, crippling.

Choking the last lights of creativity.

She watched the burning light dim.

A soft glow now. Alive, but barely.

-

Who should she blame for this lack of gumption?

Did the fault lay in the roots?

Was she not moored tightly enough for security?

Or was the opposite at fault?

-

Perhaps she had grown obstinate.

Unmoving.

The deep roots winding and thick,

Too fixed for flexibility.

-

Either way she knew the outcome.

It was foretold in the stories untold.

The remnants of that soft glow would fade and diminish.

She would stay as she had always been.

-

Following in the footsteps of dead, wannabe dreamers.

Too scared to leap atop the pyre of rebirth.

To say farewell to that weak shadow self.

Blooming instead into something bright, bold, burning.

-

Would she follow, or falter?

Falling off the beaten track onto something, other.

She sat reverently still and pondered,

Manifesting a future of intrigue, passion.

-

Wondering…

“How quickly can I jump off of this old fucking road.”