The long familiar walk up to her home,
A large foreboding farmhouse,
It's sash windows glinting like devils eyes,
She adjusts her gaze to the ever dependable sky,
Gasping for redemption, for her life that is a lie,
Solitude is bliss, like the warmth of a lovers kiss,
The driveway laced with tall trees, hedges and flowers,
Smouldering with nature's power,
Hope, glory refreshes her pale, drawn face,
With the tender touch of falling rain,
It cleanses her soul of sins, not yet committed,
Faults she has many, her history of mistakes, knitted.
She is ripped apart from inside out,
Frayed, faded, jaded,
Reflections in glass, gone is the lass,
Middle aged, she feels like a blank page, without a pen,
Without a thought,
In the early days, she had fought,
Now her eyes is without any spark,
Like a wingless lark.
Silence moves her spirit, that is her mark,
Eamon will be waiting in his suit, crisp, cool,
His opened mouth wide, dark like an icy pool,
Eamon's rage will swallow her up like an old fool,
She slows her pace, as she nears the glistening front door,
Her hands are trembling, as she says out loud,
'No more! '
Suddenly a golden beam shines from the heavens above,
The beauty of the lass appears,
Her skin softens, eyes gleam,
Her heart embraces this strange light,
Her prescence is a gift,
As her soul lifts.
She turns around and runs, runs,
Back to her glorious past,
A change is taking place,
She is back in the race,
God has found her and given her his holy strength,
To unbound her.
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