Thea under siege

        “Life is a performance.”

        She rose out of her chair, the fluffy pillows, and walked out of the wall.

        It’s a world of tears.  It’s moist, with all the lost chances.
        Her heart was a crystal white sliding door.  Failing, an imploding lotus.  Dew of the aching heavens.

        She could hear the air, cracking, under the presence of the world beyond.
        She could feel the tremor of the gods.  Bloody, strumming hearts, caged in the icy river.
        The tenor of their cry, it shattered the mountains.

        Tea leaves dropped from the sky.
        The perfume of life permeated; it lingered, just above ground.

        The wind slithered, it bled the grass.
        She stepped, barefoot into the weed.
        Far and further, there is a shower of hurt, hovering over a corner of the moor.

        Don’t, don’t give in.  The voice was sonorous. 
        She wept into the ground.  The lofty cry bled it dry.  Strangled to dust, the bell rung, a belched sound.
        A parched baby.

        The sorrows of the world are light; they floated and crowded the atmosphere.  They muffled the sob of the stars.

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        “Sometimes beauty and greatness can come from pain,” she said.

        But pain numbs you.
        You’re unable to feel, because you must pour your strength into ignoring it.
        You’re unable to feel, because you’re afraid to. You remain still, as the world crashes around you.