It is not something you believe until it happens, like the
vague memory of a bad dream, the details of which unfold from a poem before the
official announcement later tells you it is true, the man weeping on the far
side of the telephone, who clearly had not read the same poem she posted and so
got no warning about it until it kicked him in the teeth, love never enough,
especially when unrequited, maybe later, feeling betrayed about not having
heard it first from here, and she believing she was not good enough, strong
enough, wise enough or whatever, the world conspiring against here when she
assumed she was on the right road to the right place, when she never was, not
yellow brick road, no Wizard of Oz, no helpful companion with our without brain
or heart or courage, but plenty of evil witches which diver her. Bringing her
down, and she has no way to defeat them, so she must endure, moving on as she
had done so many times before
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