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She stared at the hard face
anger clearly bursting through the flood gates.
Was it her? The fault entirely hers?
Alone in the fight she must stay?
When had the choir stopped signing?
Or the drums, they laid still beneath hands trembling?
The words all a blur upon the ageing pages?
When had the sound drowned out as if by a wave,
leaving a weight upon the merriment?

She stared at the hard face
glinting accusation beyond the silver realm.
When had she let the shackles clamp
heavy and dragging upon the uneven ground?
When had her dreams drowned
crushed by days’ wear, on heavy hearts that pound
from dawn till dusk dreaming dreams
caught in a cycle of responsibilities that frown
upon freedom given to clowns,
those chasing dreams no matter how extreme
just to feel the blood pumping once again,
to be human again, born
beneath starry skies, a garden of dreams.

She stared at the hard face
willing for a chance to dream,
and the guts to go forth on a journey.
So she stepped, out onto the stage
and sang – to her heart’s content
ticking off dreams from a very long list.

One. Two. Three…