Purposefully striding,

into your tidy, stamped and self-addressed,

world. She will grip tenaciously,

until some day she spies another

space, some place else, that simply needs creating:

one, of course, that only she could ever fill.

Then, and only then, will she slip out by the rear exit,

stealthily, yet already striding again, in her imagination.

Then in actuality,

conniving bitch that she is.

I shan't promise not to say, "I told you so, you bloody fool."