She marches to no beat-
a purpose seemingly incomplete.
If she challenges her every breath,
is she not obsolete?

I can't say that I don't understand.
Weaving  bruised patches on a quilt
with a jagged stone in each hand
is enough to fill a riverbed with blood.

With such an affinity to this bed of rocks,
who am I to judge?

But you.
There is nothing more to hate
in agreeing that you hold such a fate.
If a smile is the only emotional currency,
how can you not shine brighter than gold?

She marches on against the current.
She wades in the winter wanderlust.
She is a beacon of cerulean light,
and a cup of warm coffee
on a red eye flight.

The ice sheet that covers your bones
is the warmest blanket
on a winter night.
If the gate is ever open,
I'll never cease to highlight
your tranquilizing, infinite light.