The winter’s nightscape was dabbled with sparks of light. The moon, lowered on threads of spun stardust, amplified the cries of the unheard.
I crept closer to hear and held the hand of distress. She was near the creases of eyes and the silence of a whisper and outlined in the corner of yesteryears.
She was the sequel in the gifts of madness. I watched as she rocked softly to a hum no one could hear and stroked the funnel of fears.
Music played in the layers of her mind and the soul of her planets orchestrated time.
As the edges unfolded, a depth of a weathered rock appeared and waves of midnight washed gifts on the shore of her heart. She was transposing life’s darkness from threads of stardust, into cloaks of empathy and love.