She carries opal wrapped in bay leaf,
A pleading pulse for plenitude
Sharply cuts her high cheek bones
Until they swell a hellish halocaust,
Tarring severed jewels
Resting on her face
A hand? Primordial cries from the basin of existence,
Souls of sunken sirens of hell assimilate into her eyes,
Dark now, cold as Styx, requiring more than coins to pass through.
Poison limbs splinter, screaming, cinders, shouting (silently)
You again?
Cracking,
Shooting up hope with an equally potent drug,
Hope.
Her feet tread light,
As to not stir the shadows
Of her past steps.
Her hair martyrs for wind,
Tinted temples of crossed vines and leeching ivies
Reaching, stinging, throbbing, clawing, sharply up the curving terrace,
Neck tensing as they lap up against her,
Darkening in shorebreak,
Nipping on innocence.
The dove before her is smoldering,
but she gathers the feathers for flight,
Because soon, she knows,
The canons of her life,
Will become memory,
And the opal, burning a hole
Through a right hand
That was never entirely there,
Will dilute into clarity,
You again? She screams.
Silently.
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