Small hands weave stories, wispy waves, she quiets shackles under garment graves. A slave to selfish ambition no premonition of wrath seeds, soiled path thwarted by one she needs. He holds the shimmer keys for this slave girl amiss, calms fears as she feebly walks. Yet keeps looking down, phantoms nip at feet. Frail wings too week. Rays of bright light still bleak, bittersweet.