She rises and rests against a tree of creaks, and
casts her eyes to the greying sky.
Is it the moon she searches for, or her breath against the somber air?
Her beauty in repose hides the tribulation by which her chest heaves, upon closer look, and
when they rest on you, the abysmal dim - like snow and ashes within her eyes, is alleviated.
She lowers herself against the trunk, with sighs caught in her throat.
Her body begins and continues to ache.
But as lorn as she has become, she does not break.
