Anna chuckles, because the wind so furiously laps her up, her purple-green skirt swirls ludicrously in the darkness. Her eyes dance, her hands flail. And, if you're standing there, watching her... you want to take her in your arms and dance. Dance... the dance of insanity, of innocence, of eternal love. You want to lullaby her out of her insanity, talk her into coming with you because you know it will haunt you if you don't. Down the street, into the real world.
But, Anna stays where she is. Sometimes dancing, often sitting by the corner of the street throwing pebbles. Plucking blades of grass. Counting her every breath. Slinging sand at the innocent, who walk by. And, using her muddy nails to scratch her pain on jagged walls. For you and me to marvel at, there lies Anna's art.
And, from a window a weary woman with whitened hair, and raspy brown eyes...watches Anna as the days go by. She throws her crumbs when no one's looking, but otherwise she looks away. Her hands falter, her eyes deceive. Yet, she clambers with her pots and pans, with her children who run-about house with whistle and hay. For her, Anna was quite simply, the one who got away.
