They flutter and tremble in the breeze,
Ribbon shreds of possibility,
Slowly slipping through her fingers,
What should and would and ought to be.
They whisper sweetly of dreams and hopes,
Wonderful, grand, and boundless,
Begging her to dream of all that awaits,
A future of beauty and happiness.
Look at us, think of us, they cry.
But with a smile, she sets them free,
Releasing them to the capricious winds,
Liberating herself from what could be.
The whispers fade, carried far away.
In the silence, her soul emerges.
The ribbons that bound her life have vanished.
What remains, what is left — what is.