There are crevices in her heart - filled with the dust of aging knowledge;
plethoric with words too heavy to crawl across her skin at night.
'I have become imbued with symbolic meaning,' she cried,
'Hark! I am but a hastily-drawn portrait of the human condition -'
And the moon offered no comfort, for it was truth
life had endowed her the fragility of human spirit
and left her weeping in despair, if that:
glass bones and cobwebbed hair
left her esoteric (understood by few)
with only feathered friends (who flew away anyway).
And time was wasted so eloquently;
the sun was silk
the night was velvet
so she spun dresses of both, and swallowed the needle
to disappear completely.