It is a windswept
house; yet
still.
The windowless walls are
impenetrable;
the lone tenant
doesn’t bother
to try the
door,
any more than
she would
aim a camera
at the sky
to make sure it’s
there.
She has grown so
used to this place
she can remember no other; nor
does she want to.
She does not
hate the
darkness, but turning off the
light would be like
murdering the
sun.
When she stands naked
in front of her
mirror
she trembles with
desire,
yet knows not whom she
craves.
She speaks only to
herself, yet she hears
nothing; her voice falls
dead
like poisoned
sparrows onto
carpet.
Her study has many
books.
Through the long
nights,
like tedious
prayers,
she floats on a grey
mist,
her eyes incandescent as
she confronts the
shadows.
She drifts there like Botticelli’s
gods,
self-conscious and almost
alive.
Her rooms are hung with
maps and
tapestries;
her hands are
tied.

Death, O Death…rather than this slow
dying.