She sings in the morning amidst the worlds,
Pressed like a flower between their pages,
Fluttering, trapped, captured.

Glittering sparks and embers float high,
On the pyre of a thousand legends,
Abandoned, spent,  forgotten.

Shorn of pride and devoid of self,
She treads the vacant spaces alone,
Eternal, cast, invisible.

Immortal, yet not a deity of any sort,
Longing for release from her confinement,
Struggling, held, weary.

Her tears form the mist of the morning,
with a gentle fog to hide her sorrow,
Renewing, wet, rebirth.

She struggles against physical passions,
She flees toward the doors of hope,
Repentant, right, unbound.

The mind deceives her in its constriction,
Wrapping her about in fallen logic,
Confusion, lies, beguiled.

That still small voice calls to her,
From the depths of the infinite sea,
Absolution, love, trusting.

Someday, she will be released,
She will choose that world of love,
Beautiful, bright, shining.