She is Foxtrot

She used to be a Servant to her mind

She would compose wonderful art

But there was something lacking in everything

She does.

Her heart was never present when she composed

It had shown. Critics would praise her for her visual

And insult her for her lack of emotion

After mentally beating herself up

She experienced something she thought

She would never feel again.

Warmth. Her cold frigid heart was beginning

To thaw. It’s overwhelming and powerful.

So she composes what she feels.

She scribbles out the pain that has invaded her heart

For so long.

Her hand cramps as her soul regurgitate all of her

Anger, her hurt, her remorse and her love on paper.

Her finger ignites passion as she blends her symphony

Together.

Blood replaces ink as she finishes her tenth page

Of her Inner Nature.

The ecstasy that ruptures through her writing

Is what causes her heart to beat heavily against her

Bosom.

She weeps as she ends her fantastic masterpiece.

She writes for her. She writes for those whose voices

That which cannot speak.

The meaning of being a composer, a writer

To her is an Oasis.

On top of her Ivory Tower she rules.

She is Foxtrot

Foxtrot will always be her own Master

Of her Soul and her Heart.