little girl lost

She's got holes in the soul of her,
motion-ful but no eventual goal
forever and ever amen -
she's fatigued and yet,
drives onwards (brave little solider!)
prising moments of clarity and
a hard-won parity
from the fingertips of confusion.

Fighting long-held delusions daily,
and determinedly forging a path as she treads
cobbled crossroads, rutted dips and
mile after mile where she inelegantly trips
once in a while.

And it is then she sheds her second, third and fourth skins,
Her tallest, warmest skins, and smiles ...
Smiles skinless over the peaks and troughs of
all the possible, stony lanes that she could take
towards yonder, over the hill and far away
one day to the curious next.

There are multiple dimensions
to this flighty dissension,
causing holes in the soles
of her scruffy, worn shoes;
painter pumps, over-worked, much used
and then dumped in a dustbin
flecked with sauce, like blood,
but not quite as exciting.

Her voice hoarse, weary
with those dreary words,
oft-repeated and wished deleted
from her vocabulary,
and the servitude of days which are
waitressed away (but not really, please?)

Thoughts drop like pennies
in the expanse of a mind wide
with the throw of offbeat thoughts as dice,
She always has a notebook in her pocket
to document this with variable precision.
It's to you she writes
Mysterious animal, her own indecision.