She wears no sandals on her feet as she walks alone, walks the shore, the razor's edge. A lone individual with no tears to give, and no pity to permit as her purple veins palpitate painlessly, and flood crimson. Arched back, she feels ferociously the river and falls, with no sandals on her feet to the floor. An intake of air, she's spinning, with a scarlet rose above her head. There's no death here on this edge, even though so much is already dead. Ruthlessly relishing right and wrong, she rains cherry-red, and stands up already running, with no sandals on her feet. It's night, she's nowhere fast, feigning frantically strength she doesn't possess. Lunar light illuminates her face, flushed, a flame, bittersweet burgundy. Her river's shore is overflown, feet fight the ground below as she suffers what she's sown. So slow, the soft agony shatters her perceptions; silently she streaks, toward solitude with no sandals on her feet.