She was certain

when they spoke

of her

(albeit lovingly)

they thought her

foolish,

but it did not

sway her.

They shook their heads

in dismay

wincing as she

lept

from one ledge

to another,

clinging to the edges

at times,

with the occasional

plummet

into an epic fail.

They whispered among

themselves

of her folly as she climbed

(always one more time)

and shouted for her

to stay

where she was.

But she paid them

no heed

and ran,

her eyes fierce,

to the next vision

that summoned her.

They could not see

what burned

inside her,

they could not know

that she had to climb,

had to jump

and fall,

had no choice

but to throw her arms

open to the world

and fly

heart first

into the possibility

of reaching

those she needed,

those who needed her.

The truth seekers

and soul-shaken

called to her;

she was on fire

for those

who had forgotten how

to believe.

They begged her

to reconsider,

to be rational and wise.

They urged her

with logic

and reason

and reminders

of her past

tragedies,

but she had seen

hell

and could not

bear to leave any

behind.

So she carried

hope back

with her,

emptying her heart

and her pockets,

bleeding from the

backlash and debris

of bitterness

cynicism

and sorrow.

As those who

loved her

watched

in fascinated horror,

she would return

from a sea of damage

holding the hand

of only one survivor,

and for a moment

they saw in her

a kind of joy

that left them

without words,

until she turned

(just one more time)

and began to

climb.