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.