Sunrise comes so early
and finds her crouched in her corner
a bruise turning purple on her cheek.
The glow of morning brightens,
illuminating her pain, a split lip bleeding
and burst vessels leaching into her flesh.
She draws up her arms,
seeking protection from the dawn
fearing that piercing light.
All night she cowered
hearing the howl and crash
as the world around her crumpled.
Now voices call out, worried;
her vision blurs from pain
and she dares to reach out.
“Help..” she cries, trembling;
her hand sliced on the ragged edge
of a chisel, all that’s left.
Her studio is ravaged
broken bodies of marble and clay
in pieces strewn around her.
Visions of hope scattered,
severed pieces of her heart
strewn carelessly in the wreckage.
They come to rescue her not knowing
that in those shattered pieces
lies her life, her breath, her soul.
This week’s Sunday Whirling seemed to lend itself to a destructive verse, and thought this started out with a completely different story it changed in the writing, as so many do.