She waits through times
dusty with habits and expectations,
for a premeditated hope of flight.
An escape from time’s jagged tic-toc chain.
Body drifts across sand and becomes dunes;
Tongue fondles ambrosias and kisses;
Eyes create photographs kinetic;
Lungs pulse in glass air;
Ears flutter with waves, wind, wild.
Heavy minds sit comfortably on the senses
but unceasingly thoughts prick often;
for immediate pleasures
are only pincushions for a pricky psyche.
Searching, scraping, scouring through dictionaries of words
for the perfect combination to medicate
the attack of mind on mind.
But can peace be heard from any string of words,
or should she strive to keep senses alive
for fear of an early demise?