With smooth, lotioned hands relaxed...
Nails painted fiercely...
Neck strong and powerful...
And eyes that beam the light of dignity & class...
She left.

And her leaving has made the bulb come on. 
And they all stand in the spotlight
With warts fully exposed for all the world to see.

And they claim that the warts are an illusion,
But the naked eye sees them ever-so clearly...
And we all see
Clearly
The PC...the betrayal...the false illusion
That they try to feed us through a screen
After our breakfast...

But we don't buy it
And we never will 
All their scheming is on top but soon,
It will fall down a very steep hill
Only to crash into a revine of sewage
Rotting for all to see...

And she will be sipping on her drink,
Resting her legs on the leather couch,
Carressing her lover,
And watching as it all falls down...

So I look to my left and then to my right...and they're all adorned in pear-like white....and as I stare into the glass, I see me staring back--a lump of clay--and I smile because I am no longer in the dark, where I once lay.  Like them, one day, I will stand before an open door, and my teeth will glow, pearly white, and my gown will flow to the ground with majestic delight...and oh, my hair will flow like honey...and oh my heart will jump with glee.  And I will look back onto time's past and view where I had been, and with my natural eyes, I will finally see the woman within.

As she stands up from her squatted position, she tosses a pebble into the river and watches as the waves expand from a single dip.  She then dusts her hands off on her thighs and quietly admires her verdant surroundings.  All that she missed...all that she lived for...all that she craved...all that she believed couldn't live without is...gone.  And she finds herself in a position of mourningful freedom.  Are those tears from intense joy or increased sadness?  Is that a sigh from a deep release or is it an attempt to cope with built-up tension? 

And she walks the tightrope slowly--remaining balanced--extremely nervous, but not enough to allow herself to slip.  And though there is no visible saftey cord around her in case of broken will, there is a Hand that mightily holds her up...

She inhales air so fresh that she merely tightens her eyes from the crispness of its character.  And as her head tilts to the side from the air’s intensity, she clasps her hands, as to hold in all of its essence.  And though she may lower her head from past shames--shames she brought upon herself during a time when merely a silhouette, she realizes that those times brought her to her current entrance--that gate of oxygen. 

And though she is not worthy of its rich, life-giving qualities, she still inhales because it is a gift with her name finely engraved on the box...written in deep red letters dripping from a fresh application.  She reads the letters that so carefully construct her name...a name she was ignorant to...and from sheer happiness, she breathes in again.

A crystal blue breeze arrives, that brings the room into a position of paramount tranquility. And they all stand--some with troubled hands reaching towards the sky--some with faces gazing spiritually towards the heavens... And quiet tears drop onto the solid floor--tears full of worship, adoration, and unutterable love.

And she bends over at her midsection--her face distorted by a power greater than she... Her age timeless--though a woman in the eyes of ashes, she is a little girl in the eyes of Him...

And she, once trapped inside of a cage without a key, stands next to those who she saw as both her lessers and superiors. She pushes through the glass that held her captive...and against every fiber of her being, she stands in feeble strength...knees shaking, and her hand open...ready to release her own device, which kept her a prisoner.

Each of her fingers lifts slowly from the cracked, rotting egg that she grasped so forcefully...and as she lets go, a key descends from the blue--sparkling with radiance--beauty divine.

And she turns around with spotlights intently gazing on her countenance... Placing one foot in front of the other--each step is everlasting...changeless...sublime. She knows that things will never be the same, and she watches as it all sinks into the Sea of Time.

They blow bubbles and watch them float carelessly into the air...and sometimes, the bubbles pop and the soapy remains of them fall back down to the earth and settle on the flourishing grass.

They take a slab of clay..clay that comes in various colors, and they mold it with their hands...their fingerprints gently engraving into the dough. And with their imaginations, they make houses, people, animals, and trees. They see them coming to life...they smile at the work they made.

They look at a black and white drawing that is just itching for color...and with their little minds, they decide which hues should go where. They decide shade and concept... They take their crayons and with inexperienced hands, they color away...putting all might and creativity into their work. In it's completion, it hangs sideways on a refrigerator...held up by a magnet that reads an eight-hundred number.

And they need...they need the warmth of their mothers touch. They need the affirmation of their fathers voice. They need to be held...they need to be known. A bubble, a slab of clay, and a box of crayons cannot replace the love needed from their earthly creators. And as many of them grasp their loveys under their armpits, holding it safely to their bodies, they look forward with their eyelids rested at half-staff...they imagine what could have been and what will be.