Disheveled as the fingers of morning  
this sage in her sedentary stoic seat
needs no purge to enter gloaming

Ripped at the seams by eventide
with hair of finest wheat
she lingers fearless as the tide  

Dormant dreams at sundown's door
chalk faced white as sheet
she drowns, in the ocean bellied floor

taken by the shackles of her wrists
on leaden feet
she walks towards the ether, in Gist