God, what she stole from you—
compared not which she pillaged
from herself? Number One, her, inside
that homespun box  who killed her spirit’s
glee and her spirit’s statuesque poise.
In this neck of fire worn woods, only the
deadly fashion ignited her survival instinct.  
She ingested cells of dead air, trees, and animals—
perhaps a person who ached for one last breath.
She found at the bottom of the pit of fire,
a plight for a revolted woman who hungered for
a rebellion. She rode a double edge sword—
between a rock and roll vibrating razor. Ah…
She bloodied the banality of a rough and
tough ivy vine. The ivy spread despite her efforts
to prune the rabid growth. At sunset, her sand paper
castle collapsed with the spoken word of, “God help me.”