In the midst of a storm,
lightning has crashed,
piercing down the soft shell
of an unsteady path

The ocean's rivers
bleed into falls
as the red pool rises
and lucid night calls

The shattered stars lye beneath the pool
They twinkle and cry with droplets of red moon
Cold tiles caress an empty temple,
whose residence long gone
now swept by a single breeze,
spawning like a sleepy last yawn

The beat of a lonely distant drum fades away
As night befalls at last
And flooded windows shade.

But it was not lightning you heard
it was the breaking of glass
And a shell was indeed pierced,
her fragile wrists slit at long last

It was a suicide you witnessed
A death through beauty's eyes
But she would never know,
for she was deafened by her own silent cries

In the midst of her storm was her unwinding path
It was her pool of blood
And her shattered glass

It was her holy temple, cold on the floor
her residence gone
her eyes shut, empty from the light it once bore

It was her last breath
And her heart which ceased
for no one would ever listen, or be kind to say the least.

It was she who saw day become night
And it was she who tried
It was she who was left unarmed, alone, and could no longer stand to fight...