The Iris Fields

She passed by me on the train that day.

Going where? Not a clue.

All I can tell you

is where her eyes took me to.

A field of delicate blue and violet petals.

Flowers swaying in a warm summer breeze.

I watched her gaze out the frosty windowpane,

to the dreary clouds who hung frozen in misery.

Yet in her eyes she dreamt of that far-off place,

it was then that I witnessed her own dainty iris bloom.

This was her season.

Her time to bask in the sun’s rays,

her time to live a life better than the life she’s seen.

Yet this fiery spirt still resided

only within the confines of her soft lashes

her own prison bars.

The passion didn’t-couldn’t extend to her lips.

Downturned.

Nor her small frame.

Rigid. Petrified.

She was still afraid.

She was a plucked flower on a mantle,

There for show,

much a damsel.

Not distressed

(that notion laughable).

But robbed she was

of her autonomy.

Nothing left to do in her prison

Nothing to do but wither.

Yet in her eyes,

in her eyes there was hope.