She stepped up on the platform
that they had made
but it was splintered wood.
She thought it would give her
a chance to sing
but wasn’t sure that she could,
for they thought her just a visual thing.
“No, this isn’t what I want,” she thinks.
She moved on and found a precipice
and tottered on the edge
of phobia, panic, or bliss.
Which one she never knew,
and never cared to find out.
“No, this isn’t what I want,” she shouts.
Next was a pedestal he had built,
it was hard to keep up,
and he gave her much guilt.
The winds there were lonely and cold,
The eyes on her, hungry and bold.
“This isn’t what I want,” she told.
She put her hands to work, molding
with sand, wood, mud, and clay.
She built a platform where she watched
and sometimes laughed at the passing days.
She sang and joked until the end
Leaving when the spirit moved her
and returning with new friends.
The platform was lively,
and sometimes quiet and dark.
But laughter always came back to roost,
and a dog would joyfully bark.