The Mill Grinds Slow
Is this all there is? She wondered,
Staring at the mirror of another day.
This nagging ache, this little hurt -
So small as to be almost forgettable;
But still, that 'almost' carries weight,
Like Atlas shouldering the world.
Was there a time she dreamed of more?
A hazy memory that never was,
Of versions of herself that only lived
In imaginary conversations never said.
She builds her life from grains of sand
Anew each morning, washed away by night.
What do they see, when they look at her?
A quiet not-quite-woman lost in thought,
A rude reminder of their tiny rules,
Or someone who has given up the ghost?
If they knew, they'd claw out their own eyes
In panic terror at the truth.
In other worlds she lives her other lives,
Lives of purpose, meaning, strength;
Where she stands proud without the fear or shame
Or endless grinding tiredness she feels.
But then, the dreadful days roll on,
She sells her soul for mere survival.
And in the eastern sky there is a light,
A path of gold upon the water's face.