She wears her broken fingers in her pocket.
Smilt to the linings with the polish painted on her nails by impinging badgers.
Fret and fear.
Sadness gnawing still, her opus drawn by tread worn esteem.
A widow of hope kept to the chamber of her pulse brushed breast.
Grinding skies mock the seventh trumpet.
Glassy iris and refuge to match, bark the daylight arrival.
A span, feather of harlequin demeanor, approaching with weapon sheathed.
Optimism drawn from the soot of her broken glass chest drum.
The sky sings of choirs and beacon of mystery.
Burrowing from the burning sky into a broken fingered lass.
Awe stricken.
—All is well.
Kissing her trampled fingers with acetone, cleansing her hands free as the feathered sky kneels down.
Heal. Let the hands of the clock and the pain receding pistil of the poppy be of your extension.
Impervious to pain and toil is she in the valley of the sky.
A lenticular halo aloft a brow stained glossy from the sweat and tears.
Laying down in the grass, she opens up her mouth to speak into existence what was thought dead.
The sky leans from its position of watchfulness, puts a gentle finger to once a sullen, pain pouted, quivering lip.
'Use not words to capture this beauty, for it will not suffice', the sky bellows, 'rest and taste of your reward of resilience.'
The stars themselves couldn't paint a more faith founded picture of sincerity.
She lay down in the valley meadow underneath the sky, searching for the words to express what is unspeakable, as she drifted off to a dream which was unwakable.
In her dream she dreamt what was inexpressible in wake.
May words capture what not even the eyes couldn't?
If only it were so simple.
She never awoke again to the grasping acid resin painting likes of the world that she thought was home.
The sky both awake and asleep with her, always vigilant of clouds to fan away.
Home is where the heart is.
And her heart came to dream.
Dream Forever.
© Sebastian Grey