She stands in a vertical corner, shoes pointed out, toes in. Her skirt swirls to her sway. The corduroy lines flowing to the curve of her thighs greeting the airbrushed ankles.

Green runs through her veins igniting her aged hands alight with labor.

Her hair softens the chiseled line of hardness and melts into eyes like black coffee oils down a white cheek.

Breasts heavy, heart lifted, teetering on a jagged edge of hope.

A voice in the corner tells her it’s alright for one more day.

Hang on, hang on to the tight rope that leads the way.

Don’t be afraid to fall; for falling leads to a decay of right and wrong.

Walk, walk the fine line of desire, want, need.

A scorned mother disciplines always, smacks the labored hands into submission once more. Credibility gone. Confidence shattered.

Get back up on the wobbly stallion.

Slick black, damaged hooves that know the way well.

Travel well dear one.