journey through

  The soft sheets of rain brings back memories of a time when she was alive, a time so far gone, overtaken by the insanity of her sentence on earth, overtaken by the departure of those she once lived for. The soft sheets offer no comfort, and there she weeps in disdain of the world.  From one cloud to another, thunder rolls inside her empty head and the husk left behind by the many who broke her heart. She feels like a Messiah who died for nothing, the savior who was torn apart for a people that turned their faces away from him in his last breath, in the last throes of a vain death. She remembers, bless her, she does, the demons of her past. Maybe she still is the nightmare that lurks deep in the evening sun. Maybe she still is the confusion in the order all around her. Maybe she is the chaos in the peace. Maybe she is the slave to the freedom all around. There is nothing in the past and there is nothing in the present. The only life is that outside her glass house. God has not