In a cathedral lined with glass of every
color that reflect with the setting sun,
cracked into patterns resembling those
of an inkblot test,
she spins, arms splayed and, in the
refraction of the stained glass, appearing to
bleed from all her limbs.
She does not just bleed red, however; she
purges from her soul a thousand colors from
years of torment and shame. The farther back in her
spirit she goes, the more vibrant and brilliant the hues
become and the more pure she grows.
Her head is raised toward the chapel ceiling,
eyes glistening and reddened with tears shed and shedding still
until her face is raw from the liquid.
Not a single noise leaves her parted lips, long silenced by life, on which
tears refract and dance with the light of the glass,
prisms into which infinity might be glimpsed as the
lady in black twirls, center stage, in the house of a
god she long ago assumed abandoned her.
The locks of her hair, the color of earth, are
illuminated in brightness and tones to match
the rest of her, and falls behind her, curling and bobbing
in her motion.
The woman, not a girl for many of her few years, is burdened
with the weight of a thousand lives, all seen through
the single vision of a child.
Despite this, and all that drags her down,
she floats, weightless, in the silence of the void and
in the rapidly approaching night.
Hours after the falling of the darkness there is one sound
that stirs the night, and it is a single, lonely snap
of the rope that held her aloft, off the planet.
The hush broken, the world quickly collapses as she does
onto the floor, broken and forming as a ragdoll
into unnatural angles.
The once beautiful cracks of the glass now shatter
inward, raining shards of light down in the moonlit
glow upon the girl.
The wind howls as though lamenting the
extinguished life, the innocence lost to the sands of time,
and the eons cannot replace her.