I saw her eyes and I said she
was dead. I saw the way she
stood with her shoulders crushed
under the weight of the heavens
and her hair gently slipping away
and back, flowing in the air like
water. If she is not dead, why is
there no pain in her eyes? Why
is there no glint of sorrow, why
can I see no burning depths of
falsehood? Her eyes are empty
and precarious. I feel the silken
thread between silence and chaos,
and she is wearing it like a crown
of glory and like the mask of death.