bare bones stained with blood
linking together with all the power they have
(and though they look weak,
they had no choice but to become incredibly strong)
holding up a gentle, bruised soul.
tired fingers sigh as they put down their pen and form their net,
preparing to catch the falling heart.
this is routine, like praying the rosary but colder.
the fingers strain under the weight but do not falter
then softly, slowly, transfer the iridescence to a feather bed.
she sleeps, and they watch.
they wish she would learn.
they shake their head and pick up the pen again.
golden light casts a moving shadow across the paper
as the barely holy spirit's chest rises and falls in her sleep.
soon, the fingers know, she will wake up in a sweat
unable to shake the nightmare,
and will be filled with an insatiable desire to dive
into the deep end of her limitless mind.
and when she jumps, they sigh, put down the pen,
and link to catch her once again.