chilling the straggler as she takes flight.
She turns, expecting and attack,
but nothing is there to strike at her unshielded back.
Running, running, trying to get free
she stumbles along with speed,
but the night is catching up rapidly.
It presses upon her, like Death's cold hand.
faster and faster her feet fly,
but she is in and unforgiving land.
Depression rolls over her like a fog,
clutching at her, drawing her down,
until she is caught in its deadly bog.
Slipping away she thinks quietly,
"If only I were stronger,
if only I were a better me…"
Sarah Giers 10/03/05