Song of Cicadas

The song of cicadas rides the wind over weathered rooftops and tangle with the relaxed leaves, swaying in the gentle of the night. Shadows dance their tricks, and thoughts run loose, as free and wild as their origins are not. I lie awake, alone but for the melodic sounds of nature. My mind overpowered by the dream of an escape.

The clock strikes eleven, then twelve, there comes a knock. I glance at the doorway.
Where nothing once stood now looms a tall elegance of a woman. A model of regal, exerting power and importance over the room. Zephyr whispers slide from lips to ears, words of rain soaking my thoughts and pulling me down with the weight of a choice.

The outcome was long ago decided, yet it remains woven with uncertainty.

She beckons, promising the strength of a hurricane and the change of a storm. But I hesitate.
Shadows still dance, now alive behind fiery red attire, rich with a vibrant passion. She motions for me. But I freeze up.

The moon retreats, shrouding the night in shade. As the light creeps away, so does she.
The clock strikes two, then four. I tiredly lay awake with not a choice but to wait; everything overpowered by the trailing ticking time, and the alternative left untouched.