Her hands weave expressions and soul as her mouth exudes sunlight.
Scented clothes drape over a curved back about to snap for luck or whim.
Angels sway hanging from the ceiling of a room with no windows, brushing her arms with drooping wings.
There is an unshakable, unbreakable hand placed upon her shoulder made of frost.
When she goes to sleep God abandons her.
The morning comes wrapped in a bow and steals the thunder from her bones.
As sustenance is replaced with incontinence, her lungs lie on the floor of oak in which her ancestors reside.
Wrinkles dance upon her growing skin as color leaves her body.
When her bed sinks below the ground her name becomes inked to stone, eyes matte.