Was it still night?There was no instantway of knowing this.Despair tried to sidlein, cooing, "Look at allyou could have done."

The fire in her eyesteetered on giving in,burning down to rubyembers and cloudy ash.A familiar pattern ofexhaustion was clear,decaying at her lips.What remained?An enthusiasm theopposite of lovely.She tried to standbut there was a buckleat her knees, keenand windy. Sometimesa word can't be recalledand it only acts as a gamewithin your consciousness.Listening for clues, even cruelextremities mixed in her thoughts--she still hoped, but she found onlyconversations spoken through poetry.  ___________________________________Photo Credit: Lanaya, Jersey City, NJ