She would have let go of the trapeze
If she knew where it would take her
If she could decide where to go from there
If the Sun would swallow
her tears, redolent with uncertainties
If the moonlight would strum
her hair free from the fear of being beautiful
If she knew what the purpose of her life was
Was it like those blank spaces between words?
Or those worn out rocks on the roadside?
Or was it to merely stand here and
be afraid
of heights
of acceptance
of happiness
For the fear
of being selfish
followed her like
the start which follows every end
A Blind Bird 