She bowed her head
and picked up the questions
which fell on her plate.

The fork was marked
with doubt of otherness
engulfing the atmosphere

as thousands hands
escaped from
the thousand rooms

while the walls
and the picture frames
and portraits

and windows
and tapestries
and candle-sticks

exhaled her name
and shook and screamed
for her to run.

You see,
the border of her dress is stained
and is filled with sand.