She was a storm of the inkwell

and a spirit of flame

gliding over dying corridors

with a semblance of eternal feet

their steps outlined in acidic gold

chains leading to a balcony

of birds in flowing figure eight

some unbronzed omega

encircling these fists

gripping frozen raindrops.

Her oval shapes and

shade dipped dragonfly wings

car doors on a missile fallen

legs descending

to lead spanked pavements

bleeding beads

of broken unplugged light

the wood grain of an unmasked sky.