her lines on her forehead
are not the cause of stress,
they are waves that overlap
the constant ticking of her thoughts
waiting for a disposition; a tsunami
to sweep through her mind

burnt by the sun,
a touch to her skin pains her
leaving her vulnerable and subdued
all she wants is the sensation of rain
to cleanse the skin of discomfort
leaving her pure

wind rattles her bones
(or what is left anyway)
and catches her last breath
her body becomes fine particles
that are then swept up by
a soft, warm breeze