Screech.
Ropes attached to my back are pulled tight.
Screech. Screech.Higher and Higher I am pulled.

I know I'm a symbol.

A symbol for *hope.
A symbol for love.
A symbol for pride.

I know all this.

But still I droop.
All that I stand for seems to disappear the higher I go.

Tossed and torn by a vicious wind from the East,
I stand strong.
But each and every gust cuts me deeper and deeper.

Battle wounds cover my spirit.
I cry as long as this is war.

White dress.

Vanilla Cake with fluffy icing falls to the floor.

Forgotten champagne bottles remain unopened.

Swish.

Brooms attempt to wipe away the most obvious bruises.

Caterers pack up the painful memories.

Tears run freely on well-worn paths.