She wrote it with her breath. Foggy, misty words scrawled inside the filament of her mind— in thin, stale cellophane.
Her eyes wandered, opaque— diffused in the hole her brain remembered or forgotten in murky trenches.
Disfigured, the wind avoids the contour of her face. Defying the dread of having clambered among fists, strangers marked for ownership.
If only the shepherd’s Words is as audible as the screaming voices: scales from the heart’s eyes would fall unperturbed— in silence.