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Sep 2015
Age, and age.
She galloped along an icy field.
The lights of Paris gleaming behind,
with Pigs on a throne,
Cows dancing in handmade gowns.
The public officials lead her gaze
stranded on the Atlantic.
In the middle with a white picket fence.
This day she had finally escaped the inevitable,
with a dog and some soup.
Again she took to sweep away.

This time
evolution ate and ripped her to shreds.
Instead of gills
she grew boats for feet.
Instead of fins
an engine.
Soon the waterway evaporated,
and land then seemed appealing.
Here only war, anti-war, war against war.
Age, and age.
Dead, religion, fight, food, power, fight.

Lost and distracted on the melting grass.
She remembers the days before her race.
Time slipped by her.
Trapped in an hourglass,
forced to stare at magazines, beheadings, homeless children.
So sand drags her down
and the last pebble fades in her hand.
Now on her deathbed,
looking into the eyes of the village fool
she tells him her secrets
how she never felt alive.
β€œBut you are alive today queen”
said the fool.
And with that she looks up at the silicon roof
remembering her days of escape.
Closing the door,
her elevator descends again
Age, and age
retire, children, marriage, school,
down to the tiny purple shoes,
and ending right where she began,
the icy fields behind Paris.
Jean Sullivan
Written by
Jean Sullivan  21/F/Traverse City
(21/F/Traverse City)   
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