Seen and Unseeing

She walks like a woman with a yoke across her shoulders, straining against an invisible burden. The shoulders succumb, muscles taut, to the weight of all things unseen, and down she will fall, spirit and all. But still she is standing, proud and bitter, bitterly proud. Her head is yanked down, at parallels with the ground, another seamless string pulling at the renegade marionette. The puppeteer has a name for this string: cynicism. For only those who know they will never like what they see sleepwalk through the world without looking. But she's still here, she insists, her spine snapped in straight. Then you see the sightless eyes.

Is she?