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.
