She galumphed,
you know
twisting and turning
everything,
that she thought
stopped her March
to freedom,
as she recalled it
A broken teapot,
a collapsed wooden armchair,
some shining crystalware
and a wounded heart
she left everything behind
none could accompany her
not then,
not ever
Freedom had come to the fore
She wrestled
with a bead of sweat
that came flocking
on her forehead,
boisterous and still,
she nursed herself,
back to serenity,
for there was more
She thrust herself
parting away with,
whatever air was left inside her
in the depths below
she threw
For never to be seen again
but not unheard of
There would be tales about her,
how she came about to her freedom
and the one,
especially about,
how she never,
let herself down
She always rose…
