Dissolution

Dissolution She dwells in the pitch-dark attic full of cobwebs and dried autumn leaves, in the half-open oval window, a minute aperture quenching her thoughts of passing, her back badly swollen, slowly leaning against the wall feeling the throbbing pain in nailing a fictitious comfort, pinching her tiny fingers right through the withering mural of Saint Michael slaying a twin serpent, she grasps her left-hand, while chanting an inaudible eloquence of tantrums, then pulls out a golden ring from her bruised finger, and gently inserts among the gaps, among the forsaken she stares, as the pretentious etched door adjacent her screeches, as if time freezes and palpitation creeps through her veins, when a temper in full absence of calmness inches towards her, and from the ashes of her self-inflicted incarceration, she rushes out to rendezvous with the advent of play, a misleading image, a fallacy of her vision or a miracle in progress, hands to her an elusive indictment, sparing her a moment to exhale again.