Her shackles keep her locked within herself;
Unchosen life, so easily despaired
But not for her to sit and mope and melt;
The chair’s not her, and neither’s she the chair.
The wheels that mobilise mobility
Are not the drivers you or I might know;
She’ll dance with words, with hard integrity;
Her run-down shack of life a French chateau.
Confined is she, and yet she’s unconfined
Restrained as equally as unrestrained;
Released around, behind, between the lines;
The writer writes herself on every page.
Pick up her book and know the things she sees.
No pity, sit her on your knee and read.