precipice

she walks on the edge of the water

longing to once again belong to its frigid depths

staring up that the sky that edges on darkness

a home of hers

one of many

she cries for reasons that are sad and not

drowning in the fabric of elaborate dresses and cloaks

hiding her face with crumpled hands

she is made of paper but she will last forever

she wants to be a butterly but relates more to a moth

fragile and dull

a heart of stone and a soul of glass

eyes clouded with visions

of places that are above and below