Bricked Out - Revisited
Side-to-side her moan belabored mourning scrawl.
She whispered no to new occasions
prepped to plane each stark and steadied course.
No call to force the fantasy of stoic soldier bating*;
lines of battle rose, hard-won. With challenge done
she waited, relevé reactionary, snagged on thorn-bird beat.
Each lifted heel, tensed firm upon sweet wrecking ball
of grace, to pound graffitied wonder
through remaining weighted gates.
Inside each daily stone found seconds spent,
construction zones of careful, structured cries.
She realized the walls washed loud of fingerprints…
her own.
~~~
This may well still read in the abstract, but I've attempted to do more showing than telling.
*bating - meant in the second verb tense found at www.dictionary.com - (of a hawk) to flutter its wings and attempt to escape in a fit of anger or fear
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