Fstops

I couldn't hear her, but I knew that she had said. The constant avalanche from small people pushing big boulders. The occasionally grace of the downward slope trying to warn them of the mountains ahead.

She took the darkness. for an ally. Where her secrets could be kept. Assuming the night had no intentions of ending. Reminiscing about a sun that thought better than to shine. Int the corners where she kept her array of faces. Each on designated to a particular conflict.

One for truth. Another for denial. all aware of the bloody hands she'd used to assembled them from her broken windows glass.

The war I thought I was winning turning so quickly to surrender. She finds comfort in the prison. Hope in the echo of the bars. A willing captive. as the war outside whispers.

I've always wondered. If an open door is enough. And why, it's never locked.

pouring her stories into the shallow holes she's dug. Overcoming the sharp. a cut at a time. Waiting for the mud to set on the path that's taken her here. The beginning and the end becoming one.

the water receding. leaving her buckets heavy. wet sand in close. The scowl of the desert distant, but coming closer.