As she courageously puts away,
the safety of the familial quilt
that shelters her in the dark hours of the night,
and ushers in the silent, foggy mornings of irrelevance.
as she rises, or, attempts to dethrone
into the scary, lonely, premise of life
peering over gingered tea,
looking for some inspiration in its spiced notes.
wear colors, hide her chipped red toe nails with
And cover her weak-willed shoulders
with mother’s beautiful pashmina.
pepper her lips with a shade of pink
and put on makeup
on the chapped
colorless contours of a thing called face.
in the mirror-
a splash of color,
to defeat the empty eyes.
as she writes, in the hope that
in the vestiges of her mind
a clarity will emerge
through the dark ink.
living through the eight hour
mandatory clocking of work,
in small, mundane morsels.
struggle, as she devours,
the slowly cooking listlessness
of a brown, discarded
dark chocolate, smothered with salt.
And when you have watched enough,
You will have known
A woman of the valleys-sluggish-tepid-squalid,
An almost-there person,
a never-enough sigh.
and you will learn of the
the never-ending attempts, to seize the day,
the undying urge to propel oneself
out of this abyss – to the top of mountains.
For she is the woman of the valley,
meant to stay.