For years
fear held her captive
as she walked
the long, dingy corridor.
Sweat beaded her forehead
and soaked her fine, gauze dress.
Drenching her in
ITS fetid stench.
"I must escape
this dungeon
of my own making,"
she pined to the floor.
Turning away,
she trod slowly, steadily,
head no longer bent.
Gleaming, she arose
from the inner sanctum
where she'd gathered
instruments of transformation.
This time
striding purposefully, forcefully
towards the door.
Eyes no longer focused on the lock.
She forged her escape.
Columns of color
trailed along familiar pathways,
until, unbidden,
her heart leapt itself upside down.
She had done it,
freed herself from the past.
This poem was written for Magpie #172
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