hooded were her eyes, not unlike the figures dancing in her dreams, not unlike the ghosts slinking from shadow to shadow. why did they travel by darkness? the most haunting of our demons are felt deep into dawn.
petals pulled apart, handful by shaking handful, dissolving into wilted puddles at her feet. were they not a thing of beauty, even in their dying breath? a muse is born from the entrails of despair.
glass as if the sea were a hand crafted treasure, as if her tears somehow molded into the newest stars, depression was not a thought until it was pressed into her lips. will it sink her again? brilliance never sleeps alone.