sorrow drips into her heart
soiling the busy veins,
pumping blood that whispers,
and there is comfort
in the sound
a dead sea barely contained
red waves roiling under parchment skin
she is awash in crimson fire
stepping in perfect time
with the tides
dust settles in her sunbeam showers
muffling their song with the suffocating memory
of things long forgotten
tucked away behind bookshelves
and lost in the post
elegance draped over shrunken shoulders
fading in its beauty
like the impression of a handprint left on frosted windows
or a curtain in the sun for too long
a murmur curled around the silence
she is lifted through time
like it is only a word
shakes off the wings of her youth like stardust
and casts them into the night,
silent as the dark that brought them.
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