She walks
in a rainbow shimmer
under a blue-black sky
Thunder
announces her entrance
drum roll accompanies her
Lightning
illuminates her path
ecstatic in static
The dead
strewn on the battlefield
She takes her time, and chooses
The pen remained locked between fingers which remained locked together in the shape of prayer or penance or maybe just because it was the ideal thing to do with hands that had no instruction to do anything else as the writer (Ha!) stared at the empty page and wondered in which dark back-alley his creativity had stumbled into. Gone, withered like the blackened trees of winter.
He looked outside at the pre-dawn sky, sat and wondered why.
My Words, My World 