The woman who lives in the house on the hill creeps down to the shoreline. Her neighbors have switched off their reading lights. She climbs atop the tallest rock and stares out into the mystery. It’s an endless sea.
Her home is the backdrop to her wayward thoughts. Only she can hear the blue hills crashing, her mind rolling with white-capped waves. She fills her days without caution, but what of the lonely nights?
In the daylight it’s as if she can see their thoughts. They know things about her that she is not. It gets too bright, their harsh false insight. So, it is in the quiet night that she takes flight.
To take her mind off their cruel delight, she fills her time with engagements of frill. She gets a thrill out of giving them something to fret about. But when the day slips into darkness, they escape to peace in their dreams. The woman who lives in the house on the hill gets no such luxury.
She swims in champagne and lives off her last name. She drowns in the rumors and dies a little every day. Smiling, smiling, laughing, crying. Her friends and her foes are the same. None understand how she could be suffering, but she lives in a mansion of pain.
Sometimes they all go home. The beach is once again calm. She can’t relate. In the quiet she must face the only partner life won’t let her escape. She wrestles herself on those boulders. They tumble around in the darkness, one guarded and one that keeps swinging regardless.
That quiet beach becomes a boxing ring when the lady of luxe loses her audience. The sand is bloody from her self-inflicted blows, but no one would know. Her body stands still, challenging the ocean that heaves and breathes below.
She stares out at an unknown object. She admires that ultimate pool. They say she shouldn’t be out at that hour, but they’re not who she answers to. Maybe there’s a ship on the horizon, a great vessel to take her away. I hope she finds what she’s looking for. I wish her well, no matter what the people might say.