When they weaved youth into the pattern of her skin
They forgot to lace love into her blood veins.
Devils waited at her doorstep with baited breath,
But she escaped through the window every night,
Scraping her knees on broken inhibitions
And still running faster, faster...
Faster
The number of miles to freedom
Could only be measured by a Richter scale
Because every footfall was light
But the butterfly effect turned them into earthquakes.
Her world was the Bahnhof
And the locomotive she rode the roof of every night
Glided smoothly along tracks of broken dreams,
Forgotten promises, and golden butterflies,
on wheels of memories.
No matter how many times she fell off,
Her pride was never scratched, it was only made thicker.
She would only climb back on with scabbed knees
And ride until morning.
The locomotive never stopped, but blew its ghostly whistle
And she knew when to jump.
She climbed back into the window and opened the door.
The devils turned to angels of anarchy
And she plucked a feather from a dark wing
And engraved life in her forearm
Where it could flow to her heart.
She was an apparatus, made of night, feathers, and butterflies
Weaved together with threads of a spider's web.
Dew was the water in her eyes
And the train ran through her veins.
And when the sun dared poke its head from behind train-tracked hills
She caught fire in a heartbeat
She burned and settled on the doorstep of the locomotive
And she rose from the ashes
And joined Icarus in the sky.
- Olivia Rowland (Fall 2010 - Hate Your Neighbors)
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