She seems melded together like hot, blown glass clinging to a charred
steel rod. On one hand, she is an iridescent, prosaic, fluorescence;
while on the other, she is an opaque, prodigious, alabaster. Her
darkness is light and her light, darkness.
(The darkness is nothing with prongs. A paradox.)
This is not to say that she is merely dark and light; for, there is a
specious specter of glimmering galena which joins each of her,
hemispheres like an outstretched hand across a chasm.
She knows all of this.
Once, she defeated the cruel-hearted, old woman by stealing the blue,
glass goblet from the banquet table and had glided away unnoticed to a
pocket in a courtyard of silence and satisfaction. And when the old
woman had taken the lens like the foot of a crystal candlestick holder
to see through her, she had bravely tugged the clear glass from the old
woman's spindly hands and reclaimed it as her own.
Even the hounds of love cannot grasp her thoughts and dreams with
their teeth and chew; for, she knows how to charm them with biscuits
made of self-discipline and spirit.
She looks the black-ribboned spiral in the eye every day and is white
as silver. So white as silver that her white shadow is wiped away