She is Foxtrot
She is Foxtrot
She used to be a Servant to her mind
She would compose wonderful art
But there was something lacking in everything
She does.
Her heart was never present when she composed
It had shown. Critics would praise her for her visual
And insult her for her lack of emotion
After mentally beating herself up
She experienced something she thought
She would never feel again.
Warmth. Her cold frigid heart was beginning
To thaw. It’s overwhelming and powerful.
So she composes what she feels.
She scribbles out the pain that has invaded her heart
For so long.
Her hand cramps as her soul regurgitate all of her
Anger, her hurt, her remorse and her love on paper.
Her finger ignites passion as she blends her symphony
Together.
Blood replaces ink as she finishes her tenth page
Of her Inner Nature.
The ecstasy that ruptures through her writing
Is what causes her heart to beat heavily against her
Bosom.
She weeps as she ends her fantastic masterpiece.
She writes for her. She writes for those whose voices
That which cannot speak.
The meaning of being a composer, a writer
To her is an Oasis.
On top of her Ivory Tower she rules.
She is Foxtrot
Foxtrot will always be her own Master
Of her Soul and her Heart.