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Last night she saw herself swimming in her prayers. Enveloping herself in words of her own making. Searching in the dark for warmth that is neither felt nor seen, but heard.
Within barely noticeable veins and thin strands of thread that travels up, up, up.

This morning she finds herself drowning in the comfort of her tales singing sorrowful notes of low dull beats that triumphantly echo the silent movements of a wondrous sight beyond what the heart can imagine slowly reaching a hand towards the top of her soul where it hangs still and limp from the very gates that kept it safe. Enclosed.

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