Seasoned

The world moves on, while she sits still in her cocoon, 

That question: what have you been doing? It makes her pause.

Her sense of being pushed off balance

She has neither the energy nor the capacity to answer it.

So let it sit as she ruminates.

She's running, yes, definitely running, or is she hiding? 

From the echoes of dreams she can barely recall, 

From roads left untaken, almost taken 

From waiting; that's the hardest one really, the waiting! 

It gnaws at her bones sometimes.

She's holding onto the fragility of peace,

One she cannot let go of

The sanctity of her mental well-being,

It binds her to a false security. 

As she hides her discomfort behind acceptance.

She's standing in place, for the gravity of it.

She's keeping within the periphery 

Out of sight but present, always present

She has mastered the art of patience.

Time, she's giving it, biding it, collecting, waiting.

   @Sue.Ketter