She perches on the edge of the doorway and peers down into what is, for all intents and purposes, a black abyss. The unknown.
Should she jump? Take a chance?
Even if to death? One last flight? Free fall?
Or accept resolve.
Like the emperor’s nightingale, she sings, hovering on the brink, in acquiescent resistance.
Her sound is sweet to the ears of others, without words, those words, lyrics, only she knows, they are her own, as she pours her heart out. Releases her soul.
In a suicidal melody.