The Fall

Someone once told me: “There is no heartache like the fall of an idealist.”

I no longer remember who it was, but I haven’t been able to shake their words. So here is The Fall- with perhaps a hint of a resurrection too.

The Fall

The foundation has given.
Years of wear finally win.
The soil reaches up
To swallow
What they created.

The girl,
Tiny,
Broken,
Lost,
Claws up out of the ground.

The pylons
That once supported
And promised
To lift her into the sky
Now hold her captive.

She screams.
But the dirt pushes down
Into her lungs.

She does not cry,
Does not collapse.

Instead she hardens.
Eyes darkened.
Heart scabbed.
Soul frozen.

She does not blink
But glares in
Contempt and anger
At the broken structure.

She failed.

But she doesn’t see.
The clay and topsoil piled
On her shoulders.

There was supposed to be a platform
A ladder–
Or shoulders to stand on.
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She shakes her head.
There is nothing.
Nothing can be done.

The soil too deep;
The cement too strong.

All is lost.

But can you lose something
that was never there?

The sun rises and sets
Chased by the moon.

Occasionally the colors catch
In the corner of her eye.

But she is impenetrable.

It begins to rain.
The soil tightens around her.

Breathing slows.

“You haven’t put up much of a fight,”
The wind breathes.

Lips pursed,
Eyes forward,
She says nothing.

“Have you forgotten me?”
It sings, tickling in her ear.