Temples Resolved

The hammer on the glass tapping. Finding hidden cracks. The window waits. For her vision to catch up. Weak little eyes fussing with the details of a massive puzzle. and the glue still on her fingers from the previous attempt.

She hides in her bubble of blindness. Stroking both wolves and sheep. Daring the world to prove it isn't real. Her empty laboratory. All the cages quiet. All her medicines spent. On the wounded. Vast oceans stilled. Under the antipathy of a dead war. And adrift among the land mines it leaves behind.

Dressed in the questions. The answers well beneath her skin. The darkness like charcoal burning. A seldom map to places ripe with expectations. The cupboards are empty and the ghosts are yet to be fed. She likes when they rattle their chains. It reminds her of the freedom in still being alive.

Frail slave to the tasks of her flesh. She asks for opinions and I give her facts instead. Because getting what you want is the worst kind of torture.